


The Science of Miscalculation

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 64,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is having a troublesome week. John is wondering what’s behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Burning Desire for Answers

**Author's Note:**

> I went back and forth about whether I should put a warning for minor self-harm on this one, because in the context of the story, Sherlock views it as no such thing and he’s doing it purely for practical reasons. That said, I know it can be a sensitive issue, so please be aware if you think it could upset you.

 

John came in through the front door of 221B, grocery bags in hand, and cast an immediate, wary eye in the direction of the stairs. Listening for a moment, he concluded that at least it didn’t _sound_ like anything disastrous was going on. Of course, that actually meant precisely nothing—there were, after all, plenty of quiet disastrous things Sherlock could be doing—but at this point John was just grateful that nothing appeared to have obviously caught fire or exploded while he’d been at the shops.

He wouldn’t normally be quite this paranoid, even where Sherlock was concerned. But after Sherlock’s behaviour during this past week—or rather, Sherlock’s seemingly endless raft of misbehaviour during this past week—John thought he was well within his rights to be a little edgy.

It was now two weeks to the day since Sherlock’s bus adventure, and the epic punishment that had followed it. The first week had been a breeze; Sherlock had exhibited good behaviour—or at least normal Sherlock behaviour, but without any major disobedience, tantrums or catastrophes—for six whole days. Two had been uneventful, two had been spent working a case, and for the last two Sherlock had disappeared off to Bart’s both days, and John had barely even seen him.

On the seventh day, however, quite apart from resting, Sherlock had instead begun what seemed to be a determined campaign to drive John mad.

It hadn’t actually seemed that bad at first—really, just more of the normal Sherlock stroppiness and misbehaviour that John was used to. He hardly expected Sherlock to be well behaved all the time, after all, and if anything he’d been a little surprised when Sherlock had gone six whole days without needing anything more than a mild warning. When Sherlock had started playing up again after his good behaviour break, John hadn’t really thought anything of it. It was only after several days had gone by, and Sherlock just didn’t seem to _stop_ playing up, that he had begun to wonder what was going on.

The thing was, none of Sherlock’s playing up was really anything serious on its own. Taken alone, each incident did just seem like normal Sherlock stroppiness and misbehaviour, the kind of thing John had become accustomed to long before their disciplinary arrangement was in place. Obviously he paid more attention to it now that they’d agreed on there being consequences for some of it, but the behaviour itself certainly wasn’t anything unusual.

It was, however, just bloody relentless— _that_ was the unusual part. And over the past week, it had seemed to get worse literally by the day.

The first couple of days, John really hadn’t thought anything of it. Sherlock had seemed edgy and irritable after his two day stint at Bart’s, and John had noticed that he was looking a bit pale and had duly made enquiries. Sherlock had admitted under questioning that he had eaten very little during the last two days (and John suspected that very little was more like none), so John, exasperated but unsurprised, had insisted that he have a decent meal, as per their agreement about reasonable nutrition.

Sherlock had then proceeded to protest, argue and dig his heels in in an increasingly stroppy fashion, until John had finally bent him over the table for a couple of good smacks, before sending him to the corner for fifteen minutes to calm down.

After his corner time, and a consoling cuddle, Sherlock had seemed calmer—and he had eaten the lunch John made for him without any further protest, although the promise of a proper spanking if he didn’t had probably helped with that. John had just written it off as typical Sherlock stubbornness, and made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Sherlock’s eating habits, thinking that the whole thing could probably have been prevented if John had asked questions a bit earlier.

The next day, though, Sherlock was back to being stroppy, this time because he’d been several days without a case and was, as he told John, bored, bored and _bored_. He’d become more and more irritable as the day wore on, and had finally got himself worked up enough to throw a minor tantrum. John had hastily stepped in before the minor tantrum could escalate into a major one, and had once again smacked Sherlock and sent him off to the corner to calm down.

Fifteen minutes and a good session of cuddle time later, Sherlock, seeming considerably calmer if a bit pouty, had buried himself in an experiment and barely looked up for the next several hours. When he had finally surfaced again, he had appeared to be quite recovered from his strop, and had dragged John out for dinner quite as if nothing had happened. And again, John had just written it off as a normal Sherlock reaction to boredom, and had been grateful that a smack and some corner time had been enough to sort it out.

Until the next day, when Sherlock had worked himself up into a near-tantrum state over being bored not just once but twice, one each in the morning and the evening, and both in much the same vein as the incident the day before.

And since it had seemed to be effective, John had duly repeated the procedure from the previous day both times, that being a smacked bottom for Sherlock and fifteen minutes in the corner to calm down, with the promise of more of the same if he didn’t. He had, of course, also provided plenty of cuddle time after each occasion, and both times Sherlock’s attitude had seemed much improved afterwards. Still, the episodes had come close together enough that John had remained wary, and silently prayed for a case to come along.

The day after that, he’d got his wish, and he had optimistically hoped that Sherlock would perk up now that he had a case to occupy him. Unfortunately, his hope hadn’t been borne out. Sherlock _had_ perked up—for about as long as it took for them to actually arrive at the crime scene. After that, he had become so stroppy and been so generally insulting to everyone concerned that John had started giving him seriously warning looks, which Sherlock had blithely ignored. John had finally pulled him aside and told him quietly but in no uncertain terms to pull his head in, but this, too, had been blithely ignored as soon as Sherlock got back into the public eye.

As a result of all this, the first thing John had seen to when they got home was smacking Sherlock soundly and banishing him to the corner for another fifteen minutes of reflection. Sherlock had complained bitterly about the time lost, and had pouted and sulked through most of his corner time when John refused to relent, but he had seemed quite willing to accept a cuddle afterwards, lost time apparently forgotten. And since he’d also seemed calmer as he went back to work, John had hoped—again—that that would sort him out for a while.

But—again—he had been hoping in vain. Since Sherlock was working, John had allowed some leeway over his skipping meals, but he had insisted that Sherlock eat something small for dinner just to keep him going. Sherlock had initially agreed to this, but when the time actually came he had once more argued and dug his heels in until John had smacked him yet again for disobedience, sent him to the corner to calm down, cuddled him for a good twenty minutes afterwards and then told him to eat his bloody dinner or else he’d be getting a real spanking.

Sherlock had, finally and very grudgingly, eaten the very small amount John had insisted on, and when John had pointed out that he’d have been back to work nearly an hour ago if he’d just done as he was told in the first place, Sherlock had merely huffed and gone back to poring over the crime scene photos.

And as if all of that hadn’t been bad enough, Sherlock had then proceeded to work through the night, and John had woken from an uneasy nap in the small hours of the morning to find him deeply involved in some experiment involving various acids—with no eye protection, no gloves and bare feet.

Dismayed by the lack of safety precautions, John had very sternly told him to remedy all three of those things right that minute, which Sherlock had done reluctantly but with minimal protest. John had suspected that the lack of complaining was only because Sherlock didn’t want to take any more time away from his experiment than was strictly necessary, but at least it had meant that Sherlock obeyed him without too much of a fuss.

That hadn’t got him off the hook for forgoing the safety precautions in the first place, though. John had let him finish what he was doing, but as soon as the experiment was completed he had hauled Sherlock down to his bedroom for yet another fifteen minutes in the corner. Corner time had then been followed by a dozen good smacks with the hairbrush, over John’s knee this time to make very sure the point was firmly made.

It probably would have been rather more than a dozen, too, except that Sherlock had been quite convincing with his protests that they were very weak acids, and that he’d probably take more damage from spilling bleach on himself than he would from them, and that furthermore he’d been very careful. Even so, John had made sure that every smack was administered with emphasis, and despite there only being a dozen Sherlock had been rather tearful and sniffly by the time they were finished. He’d snuggled gratefully into John’s arms afterwards, although to John’s regret he had been too keyed up to actually nap, and had gone back to work as soon as he’d had enough of a cuddle.

The next day—still working—Sherlock had begun noisily throwing things around in the kitchen in what appeared to be sheer frustration and bad temper. Seeing that he looked exhausted, John had asked how long it had been since he’d slept. When Sherlock had told him it had been a full three days, John, exasperated—because Sherlock hadn’t even had a case until yesterday, so there was no excuse for missing that much sleep—had insisted that he have a nap, because really half an hour wasn’t going to make much difference. Predictably, Sherlock had once again protested and complained until John had smacked him for disobedience and, deciding to forgo the corner this time for the sake of expedience, hustled Sherlock down to his bedroom for a cuddle—and a nap.

He’d felt quite justified in taking Sherlock away from the case for half an hour when Sherlock, apparently recharged, had solved it later that day.

The day after that, caseless once more, things had been calmer, but Sherlock had still been grumpy, irritable and hair-triggered—and he’d still looked exhausted. After a small fire in the kitchen and yet another near-swerve into tantrum territory, John had once again made enquiries, and Sherlock had finally admitted that he hadn’t slept the night before, either, despite the case being solved and John packing him off to bed with strict instructions to rest.

As far as John had been concerned, that had been sheer deliberate defiance, not just temper in the heat of the moment, and so Sherlock had earned himself another session over John’s knee for disobedience (although not for the fire, which had been an accident; John had set the ethanol on fire once himself during undergraduate labs and could quite understand how it had happened).

He’d ordered Sherlock off to his bedroom for fifteen minutes in the corner, and then it had been trousers and pants down and Sherlock, looking impressively woeful, bent over John’s knee for a proper spanking with the hairbrush. The punishment hadn’t been overly severe, but by the time John was finished Sherlock had nevertheless been drumming his feet on the bed and sniffling forlornly into his pillow, which in typical Sherlock fashion he had appeared to be trying gamely to smother himself in.

Following that, there had been a long cuddle on Sherlock’s bed, during which Sherlock had at last dropped off to sleep. John had stayed with him for some time afterwards just to make sure, hoping that this might finally see the end of Sherlock’s impressive run of misbehaviour, and wondering with not a little curiosity just what had set the whole thing off.

And he was still wondering the next day, when he took in the state of their empty cupboards and dutifully went out shopping, leaving Sherlock—who had appeared to be much improved for finally getting some decent sleep—busily involved in another experiment. It really had been quite a raft of misbehaviour, and John had found himself going over the week in his head as he’d wandered around the supermarket, trying to work out if there was some pattern he was missing. True, none of Sherlock’s acting up had really been anything out of the ordinary—but it had seemed to be unusually constant, even for him.

Or had it? John had started to second-guess himself at that point, trying to remember if Sherlock had had runs like this before their disciplinary arrangement had been in place. Thinking about it, he was sure he could recall more than one hellish week here and there when Sherlock had seemed to be almost constantly stroppy and difficult, much as he had been this week, and John had started to wonder then if perhaps he was making too much of it after all. Perhaps this had just been more of the same—just a bad week, and he had just been paying more attention now that they had an agreement about consequences for certain things.

It would make sense, after all. Behaviour that he was now expected to mete out punishment for was behaviour that he once would have ignored, or walked away from, or rolled his eyes at, or at the very most met with frustration and mild admonishments that he didn’t actually expect Sherlock to pay any attention to. Really, it was only logical that he would notice more of that behaviour now that it was actually his role to _do_ something about it, and noticing more of it could have easily led to the mistaken perception that there _was_ more of it.

It was, John had concluded, definitely a possibility.

And even if he was wrong on that, and Sherlock’s behaviour had been something more than just a bad week—well, John had some theories about that, too. For one, there was the very real possibility that Sherlock could have been testing him—testing him, testing the boundaries, testing _something_. Their arrangement was still new, after all, and John was well aware that Sherlock had intervals of feeling insecure about it. And as he’d quickly learned, when Sherlock was unsure of something, his instinct was to poke and prod and test until he had an answer that he could be sure of.

And after all, he’d reminded himself, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock had deliberately invited a punishment in order to reassure himself of John’s commitment. All right, he’d invited rather a lot of punishment in the past week—or at least he’d invited it on a lot of occasions, even if none of them had been really serious misbehaviour—but then, perhaps he’d just wanted a lot of reassurance.

As he’d considered that, John had concluded that it, too, might very well make sense. Sherlock’s punishment for the bus incident had been a very severe one indeed, and John knew all too well how hard it had been on him. It probably wasn’t so surprising that he might feel the need to reassure himself afterwards, and since it was Sherlock, it wasn’t as though he would actually _ask_. No, he’d poke and prod and test instead.

And there had only been a week in between the end of that very severe punishment and the start of Sherlock’s Stroppy Week (as John had started to call it in his head). Perhaps Sherlock had started to feel uncertain after his six days of good behaviour, or perhaps he’d actually been stewing all along and had just wanted to wait until his bottom had recovered before he started pushing for more. Either way, it seemed entirely possible.

Hell, John had thought, it might even have been a combination of the two; Sherlock had had a bad week _and_ been testing to reassure himself. That could certainly explain the seemingly relentless misbehaviour.

It _did_ seem entirely possible—entirely plausible, even—but somehow … it didn’t quite feel right. Or at least, it felt like there was more to it, somehow. There was something John wasn’t quite seeing, a pattern he wasn’t quite grasping … just something he was _missing_ , he was almost sure of it. There had been a look on Sherlock’s face at times … a strange, fleeting expression that John hadn’t been able to interpret, and gone so quickly that he hadn’t had time to get more than a glimpse of it. But remembering it gave him the oddest feeling that there was just … something … that he wasn’t quite understanding.

The problem was, he had no real idea what it might be.

He’d thought, and pondered, and puzzled on it, but ultimately he’d come home from the supermarket no more enlightened than he had been when he’d left. That was a little frustrating, but on the bright side, at least it did appear that nothing had burned down in his absence. With any luck, Sherlock was still holed up in the kitchen doing God knows what to human tissue samples. Sherlock being Sherlock, he’d probably barely even noticed that John was gone.

With those optimistic thoughts in mind, John lugged himself and the grocery bags up the stairs into the flat proper. As he came into the living room, he was relieved to see that not only were there still no disasters in evidence, but that Sherlock was indeed still perched at the kitchen table, curly head bent industriously over whatever experiment he was working on. He didn’t look like he’d even moved since John had left, and John felt himself relax a little more. The day certainly wasn’t over yet, but at least for right now Sherlock seemed to be staying out of trouble.

He put the bags down just long enough to shed his jacket, then picked them all up again and made for the kitchen himself to put the shopping away, going around the other side of the table as he headed for the fridge. He glanced across at Sherlock as he went, not expecting an acknowledgement from him but idly curious about what he was doing—only to stop dead in his tracks as he took in the scene, his mouth falling open in shock and dismay.

He _wanted_ to drop the bags on the floor and shout. Sheer willpower—and the concern that Sherlock might spill something if he startled him—made him instead carefully _put_ them down on the floor and then _ask_ , albeit in a tone that was no less appalled for not being loud.

“What,” he said, carefully and with deliberate emphasis, “the _bloody hell_ —” Another pause for emphasis. “—are you _doing?_ ”

But his dangerous tone apparently went unnoticed, at least if Sherlock’s reaction was any indication. Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, didn’t even so much as glance up from where he was, to all appearances, _deliberately giving himself chemical burns_.

“I’ll put gloves on for the next part,” he said, and he actually had the bloody cheek to sound faintly exasperated. “They’re annoying when I need to keep taking pictures.”

Even as he spoke, he put down the dropper he’d been using and picked up his phone instead, and as John watched he took a quick photo of the inside of his forearm. John would have been much less disturbed by this if the inside of Sherlock’s forearm had not been dotted with a neat series of small, carefully spaced, splotchy burns, in varying shades including one which had turned a rather angry red and one which had bleached the skin beneath a sickly white.

Part of John’s mind did note the neat and careful spacing, and that all of the burns were small and that none of them appeared to be terribly severe, and that Sherlock certainly didn’t appear to be in much pain from them. However, most of his attention was very firmly taken up by the horrified realisation that Sherlock was _deliberately giving himself chemical burns_.

And _what_ had he said? ‘I’ll put gloves on for the next part’. Gloves? What the hell use were gloves when he was burning his _arm?_

“Gloves?” he echoed blankly, but even as he said it he thought he understood; Sherlock was wearing goggles, but not gloves, and apparently—unbelievably—it seemed that he thought the lack of gloves was what John was protesting, and not the fact that Sherlock was _deliberately giving himself chemical burns_.

And worse, he didn’t appear to have any intention of _stopping_. Even as John watched, appalled, Sherlock picked up a fresh dropper and took up some of the next solution—the fifth, John saw, in the neat line of six in front of him. And then he actually began positioning the dropper over his arm, so that he could _deliberately give himself another chemical burn_.

“Sherlock,” John said. His voice was low, and he found himself grimly amazed at how calm he sounded. “Put that down. Right now.”

Sherlock flicked him a brief, exasperated look, the dropper still hovering over his arm. “John, honestly,” he said, as if John was being quite unreasonable about all this. “I’m wearing goggles. I’ll put gloves on in a minute; I just need to do these last two.”

“The gloves are not the issue here,” John snapped, and the words seemed to snap him out of his paralysis as well. He made it around the table and to Sherlock’s side in six quick strides, fully prepared to physically remove that dropper from Sherlock’s hand if he wouldn’t relinquish it voluntarily. “Now put that _down_. Put it down right—”

He cut himself off mid-sentence as he caught a glimpse of the labels on Sherlock’s row of solutions, his eyes going wide as he got to the last one in the line. “Is that _phenol?_ ” he asked in horror.

Sherlock cast a glance at the bottle, his brows furrowing. “Of course it’s phenol,” he said, and John could almost hear what he didn’t say: _it’s labelled as phenol, isn’t it? Why would it be labelled as phenol if it wasn’t phenol?_

“Sherlock, for Christ’s _sake_ ,” John said, and now he was speaking through gritted teeth. “That stuff is _toxic_.” John’s days in the undergraduate labs might have been a long time ago, but just as he could still remember the time he’d managed to set the ethanol on fire, he could also remember the numerous it’s-toxic-don’t-spill-it-on-yourself warnings on the occasions that they’d used phenol.

“Only in large amounts,” Sherlock said, his tone a clear dismissal of John’s concern. “I’m only going to use a bit, and I’ll wash it off as soon as—”

John didn’t let him finish. “You’re not using any of it,” he barked. “Now put that _down_.” And God help him, if he had to ask one more time he was going to do something drastic.

“But I’m not finished,” Sherlock protested, again in that tone that suggested John was being entirely unreasonable about the whole business, and for just a moment John was sure he actually saw red. He came very close indeed to just snatching the dropper out of Sherlock’s hand, and it was only sheer self-control, along with the knowledge that it would be a bloody dangerous thing to do, that stopped him.

Instead, he channelled all of his rapidly mounting fury into his voice. “Put that thing _down_ ,” he said again, and while he still wasn’t shouting—even though he badly wanted to—his tone was so stern and emphatic that Sherlock actually threw him a startled look, and—thank _Christ_ —put the dropper back in the bottle.

Relieved, John took a slow breath to calm himself, his focus already shifting—now that the immediate risk was gone—onto treatment procedures. There would be time for them to discuss this, and for Sherlock to get absolutely everything that was coming to him, after the medical matters had been taken care of. For right now, John was a doctor and there were injuries to care for.

“Right,” he said, before Sherlock had a chance to say anything else. “Up. Come on.” He took Sherlock by the arm—the upper arm, carefully avoiding the burned area—and tugged gently to urge him to stand. Sherlock did, still eyeing John with wary surprise, and John promptly hustled him over to the sink and turned the cold tap on, adjusting the flow so that it was gentle but still running fast enough for a thorough wash.

“Fifteen minutes under there,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, guiding Sherlock’s forearm under the tap. “I’m going to get the first aid kit. You stay there and keep your arm under the water.”

He stepped away, intending to head for the stairs, but Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “John, really,” he protested, although there was a cautious note in his voice now; he’d obviously realised that he was in more trouble than he’d previously thought. “Isn’t this a bit excessive?”

John turned sharply back around to face him. Sherlock had pushed his goggles up to perch above his forehead, letting John see his face more clearly, and he took some small, grim satisfaction in seeing Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly in alarm as he took in John’s expression.

“Excessive?” he echoed, and Sherlock’s eyes widened even more at his dangerous tone. “You think medical care for chemical burns is excessive?”

“No … but they aren’t bad burns,” Sherlock rushed on earnestly. “Really, they aren’t. I was careful. And I know I wasn’t wearing gloves but I did have goggles on—” He indicated them with his free hand, as if John had somehow managed to miss them perched on top of his head. “And I was going to put gloves on once I’d taken all the pictures.”

“The fact that you weren’t wearing gloves isn’t the half of it,” John barked, because Sherlock _still_ seemed to be under the impression that the lack of proper safety equipment was his main complaint. “Try the fact that you were deliberately giving yourself bloody chemical burns!”

Sherlock glanced down at his arm, which he was still dutifully holding underneath the flow of water. “Very minor chemical burns,” he said, in a tone that suggested he was a little bewildered by John’s vehemence. “They’re certainly not dangerous.”

“Not dangerous? Sherlock, for Christ’s sake!” John burst out, but then deliberately cut himself off before he could say any more. He was aware that he was sounding increasingly irate, but it was very hard to help; Sherlock’s complete disregard for his own safety was just too bloody infuriating.

He pressed his fingers hard against his forehead and took a deep breath, trying to get himself back under control. “Phenol is _toxic_ ,” he said when he thought he could speak without shouting, although it was still a struggle to keep his tone level. “Toxic and absorbed through your _skin_. And acid burns can do real bloody damage; I’ve seen it. And there you were deliberately exposing yourself to them! What in the bloody hell were you _thinking?_ ”

Despite his efforts, his voice had risen again on that last, and he knew that this time there was no mistaking the very real anger in it. And if Sherlock’s wide, worried eyes and newly anxious look were any indication, he had heard it only too clearly, and was just now starting to grasp exactly how much trouble he was really in.

“It was an experiment,” he said after a moment, in a suddenly small voice. And then as if further explanation might help his case, he added, “I needed pictures to compare with the crime scene photos.”

John managed—just—to bite back his instinctive response to that, which he was pretty sure would have involved copious shouting about how it being an experiment for a case was not a good enough reason, and probably further expounding on the ‘what the bloody hell were you thinking’ aspect. But he was very aware that he was starting to lose his temper, and that given that, the best thing for him to do right now was to focus on being a doctor and treating Sherlock’s injuries. He knew himself well enough to know that concentrating on that would help him to calm down, so that when it came time to really scold Sherlock about this—and to mete out the appropriate and very well-deserved punishment—he’d be able to do it fairly and with a clear head.

With that goal firmly in mind, he made a conscious effort to lower his voice when he spoke again, aiming for a tone that was stern but in control. “We’ll talk about it once I’ve patched you up,” he said, relieved when the words came out evenly. “Right now I’m going to go upstairs and get the first aid kit. You keep your arm under the water.”

He didn’t give Sherlock a chance to reply this time, instead turning where he stood and heading straight for the stairs. It was only a quick trip upstairs to the bathroom and back, but John made sure he used the brief time as best he could, to try to steady himself and get a decent rein on his temper. Yes, he was angry, and yes, he was going to make very sure indeed that Sherlock learned a bloody good lesson about experiments involving bloody chemical burns—but insofar as was possible, he _was_ going to keep his temper and do it calmly.

That firm conviction—and a few deep breaths in the privacy of the bathroom—did help him to get his immediate ire under control, and by the time he took the first aid kit back downstairs, he was feeling a good deal more composed. The fact that he knew he had injuries to treat only helped more; it was something familiar and concrete to focus on, and however minor the injuries might be, the automatic diversion of working out a treatment plan was still a calming exercise.

As he came back into the kitchen, he was gratified to see that Sherlock was still holding his arm dutifully under the tap—although after seeing the apprehensive look on his face just minutes before, John hadn’t really expected him to disobey. That look had definitely been a light bulb coming on, a big, nervous light bulb that said Sherlock had just belatedly worked out that there was major trouble coming his way. If he’d been a cartoon, John thought with just a bit of grim humour, he’d probably have had a caption that read ‘uh-oh’.

The fretful look was still in place as John approached, although now it was mingled with the familiar expression of mute appeal that came out when Sherlock knew he was facing punishment. John ignored both, instead crossing briskly to Sherlock’s side and casting a practiced gaze over Sherlock’s deluged forearm. Even with the water still running, he thought the burns already looked a bit less angry.

“How’s it feeling?” he asked, and Sherlock gave a wary little shrug.

“Fine,” he said. Cautiously, he added, “It didn’t hurt much in the first place.”

“Good,” John replied evenly, choosing to ignore any possible further implications that his care might be excessive. “Say ten more minutes under the water, then. Once it’s cooled down I’ll wrap it, and with any luck you’ll just need to be careful with it for a few days. When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Sherlock frowned, appearing to consider this. “I’m … not sure,” he finally said.

“Any idea whether you had one in the last five years?”

Another moment of consideration, and then Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

John wasn’t surprised; even if Sherlock had had one recently, he’d probably deleted the experience as inconsequential. “Okay. Well, we’d better get you a booster then, just to be on the safe side,” he said, speaking in a firm, decisive tone that he hoped would forestall any possible arguments. “We can go into the clinic later today.”

If Sherlock thought this was also excessive, he wisely elected not to voice it. “All right,” he agreed meekly.

John wasn’t entirely convinced by the meekness, since it wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had brought that out when he knew he was in trouble and was trying to appease John with good behaviour after the fact. He’d take the obedience, though, and just hope it lasted long enough to actually get Sherlock to the clinic.

“Good. Ten more minutes, then,” he said crisply. “And then once I’ve patched you up, we’re going to have a discussion.”

That rather grim pronouncement was greeted with another wide-eyed, appealing look from Sherlock, but he remained silent, and he continued to remain silent during his required ten minutes under the tap, which John sternly supervised to make sure he was keeping his arm in the water. Apparently he’d decided that he was better off staying mum unless and until John started actually demanding answers from him.

John wasn’t really surprised by this—Sherlock had obviously worked out that he was in much more trouble than he’d originally thought, and that realisation seemed to have cowed him enough that he’d dropped the attitude, at least for the moment. Still, he’d been so stroppy this whole week that John wouldn’t have been too surprised if he’d kept it up, either, no matter how much trouble he’d deduced that he was in.

Nor, for that matter, would he be surprised if the stroppiness made an appearance again, just as soon Sherlock had got over being startled about having misjudged John’s level of displeasure. He had seemed to genuinely believe that his experiment wasn’t a problem—thus his confusion about John’s reaction—and while John intended to disabuse him of that notion in the strongest possible terms, that certainly didn’t mean that Sherlock wasn’t going to argue with him. This was Sherlock they were talking about, after all.

However long Sherlock’s cooperation lasted, though, John was grateful that it seemed he wasn’t going to have a fight on his hands over the doctoring, at least. The burns really hadn’t looked serious—Sherlock’s claim that he’d been careful appeared to have been quite true—but even so, John would much prefer to be sure of that before he starting moving on to matters of discipline.

As it was, he got his wish. Sherlock stayed obediently quiet throughout the rest of his treatment, not making even a peep of protest as John sat him down at the table for a careful examination of his arm, and having concluded that the burns were indeed not serious and should be fine to heal on their own, bandaged the area with a sterile pad and a light layer of gauze, telling Sherlock firmly that he should be careful with it for a few days and make sure to keep it covered.

And so, with the doctor side of him thus satisfied, it was now time for him to let the disciplinarian side take over.

John took a steadying breath before he spoke—although more out of habit than real necessity; treating Sherlock’s burns had, as he’d expected, done a good job of cooling his temper—and fixed Sherlock with a suitably stern and expectant look.

“All right,” he said. “Would you like to tell me what, exactly, you were thinking when you decided to do an experiment that involved giving yourself chemical burns?”

Sherlock, for his part, was still wearing the mutely appealing look that he trotted out when he knew a spanking was imminent—no sign of any stroppiness yet, although John knew it could still easily appear without any warning. “It was for a case,” he said, and then offered nothing further, as if those five words were enough to explain everything.

And as far as Sherlock was concerned, they probably were, John thought wryly. “That doesn’t really tell me anything,” he said. “Why did you need to give yourself chemical burns for a case?”

Sherlock’s ‘please don’t spank me’ look remained firmly in place as he explained. “It’s a cold case,” he said. “Lestrade gave me some files last week. The victim had a small chemical burn on her arm—fresh, but it happened before she was killed. I needed to know what chemical, and it’s hard to find good, reliable pictures. And I couldn’t use a cadaver because the burn wasn’t post-mortem. The best way to be sure was to do a small series on myself.”

John sighed. That really was typical Sherlock logic, there—and the issue wasn’t that it wasn’t logical, because it was; it was just that there was absolutely no consideration for his own safety involved.

“Sherlock, we have talked about health and safety when you’re doing experiments,” he said, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. “Did it not even occur to you that I’d have a problem with you deliberately giving yourself chemical burns?”

Instead of answering with a yes or no, Sherlock cast him an awkward look and then dropped his eyes to gaze down at the table top. “They were only very minor burns,” he said meekly.

John took that to basically mean ‘no’. “So you didn’t think I’d have a problem with it?”

Sherlock squirmed a little in his seat, still not meeting John’s eyes. “I thought you’d be annoyed that I wasn’t wearing gloves.”

“But not that you were giving yourself chemical burns. Christ, Sherlock.” John shook his head in disbelief. “Yes, I’m annoyed that you weren’t wearing gloves, because we both know you’re supposed to if you’re working with hazardous chemicals. But I’m a hell of a lot more upset about you deliberately harming yourself for an experiment.”

“I wasn’t actually trying to harm myself,” Sherlock said, finally looking up, and fixing John with that appealing look once again. “I just needed the pictures. The harm was minor, nothing that wouldn’t heal quickly, and it was just a necessary part of the experiment.”

“And that right there is where we differ,” John said sternly, tapping the table top with a finger. “That word: necessary. You think it was necessary to do an experiment that involved deliberately harming yourself in order to get information for a case. I disagree. That is never necessary. Never, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned, looking bewildered for a moment, and then almost mutinous. “But it was for a _case_ , John,” he said again, as if that ought to automatically trump any objections John might have. “And it wasn’t like I was permanently injuring myself. Those burns won’t even scar. I’m in far more danger during active investigations, and you’ve agreed to the necessity of that. Why is this different?”

“It’s not different,” John told him bluntly, because it _wasn’t_. “I accept that you’re going to be in danger sometimes as part of your work. What you do involves some risk, and yes, I’ve agreed that sometimes those risks are necessary to solve a case. But we’ve talked about necessary and unnecessary risks, and this goes beyond that; this is about risk and certainty. If you were out investigating a case and you deliberately put yourself into a situation where you knew you were going to get hurt, I would not be happy and you would get punished. Because that’s a safety issue, a big one. And the same goes here. You deliberately put yourself into a situation where you knew you’d get hurt because you wanted information for a case. I don’t care that you were the one doing the hurting, and I don’t care that they were minor injuries. They were chemical burns, with acids and bloody phenol for God’s sake, and that’s not something to muck around with, no matter how careful you think you were being. I won’t have it, Sherlock. Deliberately harming yourself is a safety issue, and we agreed that safety issues are my call. And I’m telling you right now that it’s never necessary, and you will not do it.”

He spoke especially sternly on that last, his tone the unmistakable voice of Captain Watson giving orders, making it very clear that there was no room for negotiation. Really, that had been quite a little lecture, but John found himself feeling grimly satisfied by how it had come out; he thought he’d managed to say exactly what needed to be said, and quite logically too. He would not tolerate Sherlock deliberately harming himself, for a case or for any other reason, and if he hadn’t made that clear enough before then he was definitely going to make it very clear now.

And it seemed that he’d succeeded in putting his point across, at least if Sherlock’s reaction was any indication. He had listened in silence, but his expression had slowly shifted as John spoke, the brewing rebellion giving way first to uncomfortable realisation, then to consternation—his ‘uh-oh’ face again, John thought, seeing it—and finally to a look John recognised only too well: the beginnings of a typical Sherlock sulk.

In fact, now that John had finished speaking Sherlock was looking sulkier by the moment, his expression darkening to the point where John began to suspect that the fit of stroppiness he’d been more than half expecting was about to happen after all. It had, after all, been an oft-repeated theme during the past week, even compared to Sherlock’s usual behaviour, so it wasn’t as though a reappearance now would really be any kind of a surprise.

John was actually bracing himself, getting ready to be really properly stern and nip any displays of temper very firmly in the bud—but rather to his surprise, the stroppy outburst he was predicting simply never came. Instead, Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, closed it again with a sullen sounding huff … and then his gaze lowered rather awkwardly back to the table top, and he muttered in a low and distinctly grudging tone, “That … makes sense.”

John couldn’t help blinking a little. The admission had been made with obvious reluctance, and John thought Sherlock appeared almost frustrated by it, as if John’s having made sense was an unexpected and unwelcome development. Still, under the circumstances, John was rather surprised that he’d made it at all—and voluntarily, at that.

It wasn’t as though John didn’t understand. As far as he could tell, the fact was that Sherlock had miscalculated—which was something he hated doing, and hated even more having to admit to doing. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it appeared that he now understood exactly what his miscalculation had been, and why he was suddenly in so much trouble that he obviously hadn’t been expecting. Worse still, when John had explained it, he had actually made _sense_. As far as Sherlock was concerned, that probably was an unexpected and unwelcome development, at least right at the moment.

Really, given all that, it was little wonder that Sherlock had gone into a sulk about it. The wonder was more that he hadn’t just had a full on tantrum, or tried to argue about it until he was blue in the face whether it made sense or not—or both. As relentlessly stroppy as he’d been this week, John wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

But then again, Sherlock was obviously quite well aware that he was already in rather a lot of trouble—the apprehensive look he’d worn on realising it had made that very clear. And he was also well aware that having a tantrum about it would only make things worse. Sherlock being Sherlock, that knowledge wouldn’t necessarily stop him if he really felt like blowing off steam, but perhaps on this occasion a bit of self-preservation had actually kicked in. Even Sherlock sometimes chose discretion as the better part of valour, or the better part of sulky temper as the case may be.

And that was just fine with John, especially if it meant he didn’t have to deal with a tantrum on top of the trouble that Sherlock was already in. It wasn’t going to earn him a reprieve, but in recognition of the fact that Sherlock had reined in his temper—and had also made what John knew must have been a very difficult admission—John replied evenly rather than with any real sternness, although his tone was definitely still one that didn’t invite an argument.

“I’m glad you agree,” he said. “You’ll understand, then, why you’re in trouble and why you’re going to be punished.”

Of course, the fact that John wasn’t inviting an argument didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to get one, albeit a rather mild one. “But I didn’t _know_ you’d count it as a safety issue,” Sherlock complained, now looking somewhere between petulant and hopeful. “Couldn’t you just punish me for not wearing gloves, and let me off with a warning for the other part?”

And this, John thought wryly, from the man who had insisted that they didn’t even need to have a conversation about the rules because he’d already deduced everything there was to know about them. For a moment he was highly tempted to remind Sherlock of that, but he just as quickly decided against it. For one thing, he didn’t really want to rub it in, and for another, he didn’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary. Sherlock had compromised his safety—both with the lack of gloves and, much more seriously, with the experiment itself—and he was going to be punished for it. They’d both be a lot happier when it was over with, and so as far as John was concerned the best thing to do now was to just get on with it.

“No,” he said firmly. “The fact that you didn’t know it would count as a safety issue—” _Although you damn well should have_ , he mentally added. “—is the reason your punishment won’t be as severe as it might have been, but you are getting a spanking for compromising your safety. Deliberately harming yourself is not acceptable, and I intend to make that very clear to you. And you were in trouble not three days ago for not taking proper safety precautions with your experiments, so you’ve got no excuse for the gloves.”

“But I was going to put them on as soon as I’d finished taking the pictures,” Sherlock protested, his tone making it clear that he thought he did, in fact, have an excuse. “And I was wearing goggles. And I was being very careful, I promise.”

“Half marks for the goggles, then,” John replied evenly. “But when I came in, you weren’t wearing gloves, even though you know you’re supposed to when you’re using dangerous chemicals, and you _were_ deliberately giving yourself burns with those same chemicals. Taken together, that’s earned you a spanking.”

Sentence duly pronounced, John got to his feet with an air of finality, and raised an expectant eyebrow when Sherlock didn’t do the same. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Apparently unwilling to actually disobey, Sherlock slowly unfolded himself from his seat and stood, although his reluctance was plainly written in every line of him. The remaining sulkiness had vanished from his face as if by magic, replaced instead by the familiar look of wide-eyed appeal.

“But you just spanked me yesterday,” he pleaded, his voice edging into a whine now. “And I’m still sore.” His hands strayed behind him, cupping protectively over his bottom as if to demonstrate just how sore.

John was by no means immune to that beseeching look, especially now that his temper had cooled, but the sight of Sherlock’s bandaged arm—and the memory of the scene he’d walked in on which had resulted in said bandaged arm—worked very well to counteract his instinctive sympathy.

“And if you’re going to keep misbehaving, then you’re going to keep getting spanked,” he said sternly—and that was certainly a lesson that should be fresh in Sherlock’s mind after the week they’d just had. “And unless you want extra, you’ll stop arguing right now.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but just pointed a firm finger in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. “Now come on. To your room and we’ll get this done.”

It seemed Sherlock was also unwilling to risk the possibility of extra—something he knew by now was no idle threat—because while he looked pitifully forlorn, he nevertheless began moving obediently in the indicated direction. John followed him, but before they even got into the hall Sherlock had somehow managed to reverse their positions so that he was the one doing the following instead. John deliberately didn’t comment on the switch, mainly because he still wasn’t entirely sure if Sherlock was aware of his new habit, but even with his disciplinarian face on he couldn’t help finding it a bit endearing.

He made sure it didn’t show in his face, though—even with Sherlock currently behind him, it was the principle of the thing. There would be plenty of time for being soppy once they got to cuddle time; for now, John’s role was to be the stern authority figure that Sherlock expected him to be.

He made quick work of the trip to Sherlock’s bedroom, vaguely aware that he’d reverted to a properly military stride even for the brief walk down the hall. Once inside, he waited for Sherlock to follow him in—which he did, hangdog look firmly in place—and then pointed a firm finger towards the familiar corner.

“Corner time,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. You know the rules. Hands behind your back, keep still and no talking. Use the time to think about what you did wrong today, because I will be asking, and since I’ve just explained it to you I’ll expect reasonable answers. Understood?”

Although these instructions were hardly unexpected, Sherlock managed to look even more woeful as John rattled them off, his shoulders slumping as if he’d just been condemned. He heaved a great, crestfallen sigh, but nodded to indicate that he had indeed understood, even if he obviously didn’t like it.

“Good,” John said, resolutely ignoring the wide grey eyes that were now pointed at him in a truly heartbreaking manner. “In you go, then.”

That command got him another forlorn sigh, but Sherlock turned without a word and slumped off silently into the corner. Once there, he took a moment or two to shuffle himself into a position that suited him, then dutifully straightened up and put his hands behind him, clasping them loosely at the small of his back. He gave one more very unhappy sounding sigh—loud enough that John could easily hear it from where he was—and then went obediently still, although he fairly radiated tragedy.

_Bloody drama queen_ , John thought fondly, allowing himself a very small smile at Sherlock’s woefully turned back. He knew that the disarmed reaction was probably exactly what Sherlock had intended with all those dramatics, but even knowing that, it was damn hard to resist.

However, John was not so disarmed that dramatics were going to earn Sherlock any kind of reprieve, no matter how endearing they might be. The sight of the gauze wrapped around Sherlock’s forearm was very effective in reminding John just why Sherlock was being punished, and he had every intention of making that punishment a good lesson. Sherlock _was_ going to learn not to take unnecessary chances with his safety, no matter how many repetitions it might take.

With that firmly in mind, he crossed quickly to Sherlock’s chest of drawers to get the hairbrush, then took a seat on the bed where he could keep a watchful eye on Sherlock. He wasn’t really expecting any trouble during corner time, since in his current mood Sherlock seemed inclined to be tragic rather than actually defiant. That said, John also knew better than anyone just how quickly Sherlock’s mood could and often did shift, so _he_ was inclined to be vigilant just as a matter of course.

On this occasion, though, Sherlock had apparently decided to stay with the tragic-but-obedient option. He remained dutifully still during his fifteen minutes of corner time, and made not a sound apart from the occasional mournful sigh—loud enough that John could hear them, but not so loud that they could be considered fidgeting or playing up while he was supposed to be thinking.

John had no doubt that Sherlock was feeling genuinely unhappy about his predicament, but he would still have bet money that the volume of those sighs—not too loud but just loud enough—was carefully calculated. He found himself torn between stern sympathy and reluctant amusement, and had to make a conscious effort to bring the stern part properly to the fore when the fifteen minutes were finally up.

Another good look at Sherlock’s bandaged arm helped with that, luckily. “All right,” John said in a suitably firm tone, as they reached the fifteen minute mark. “Corner time is up, Sherlock. Come here, please.”

Sherlock turned where he stood, woebegone look still firmly in place, and gave another heavy sigh as he caught sight of the hairbrush. He crossed reluctantly to John’s side and stood waiting for instructions, which John, fully into his disciplinarian mindset now and wanting to get the unpleasant part over with as efficiently as possible, wasted no time in giving.

“You know the drill,” he said, patting his thigh expectantly. “Trousers and pants down, and put yourself over my knee.”

That netted him yet another disconsolate sigh, but Sherlock nevertheless did as he was told, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers and pushing them off over his hips with the air of a martyr. He let them fall to the floor, and then bent over to take his shoes off so that he could step out of them altogether, something he tended to do when he was actually wearing suit trousers. John assumed it was to save them from some wrinkling, although since Sherlock also tended to just leave them lying on the floor once he took them off, he thought it probably didn’t make a lot of difference.

Now divested of trousers and shoes, Sherlock then took his socks off as well—John suspected this was more for aesthetics than anything else—and dropped them on top of the pile. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and then paused to cast John one final look of appeal, which John duly met with an even, expectant stare. Thus assured that there would indeed be no last minute reprieve, Sherlock sighed yet again and glumly pushed his pants down to his knees—and then, after a moment of hesitation, pushed them down the rest of the way and stepped out of them too.

At this point John was only guessing as to the reason, but given Sherlock’s tendency to kick during spankings, perhaps he just wanted to spare his pants from getting stretched—or spare himself the irritation of having them tangle up around his ankles, which anything on his lower half inevitably seemed to do. Either way, John didn’t mind and didn’t intend to comment on it. So long as Sherlock got the clothing out of the way of his target area, John would let him undress as much as suited him.

And with his undressing now complete, Sherlock heaved one more sorrowful sigh—he really did make an art form of the sorrowful sighs at times like this—and climbed gingerly up onto the bed. John leaned back a little to give him room, and Sherlock lowered himself glumly down over John’s lap, wriggling forwards a little once he was down to get himself into the appropriate position. He then made a hasty grab for a pillow from the head of the bed, which he pulled close and promptly wrapped his arms around. This had the effect of taking his bandaged arm out of John’s immediate view—but that was fine, John thought, a bit grimly. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know it was there.

He waited patiently until Sherlock seemed to have settled himself into place, then folded the tail of his shirt up out of the way and put a firm hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, reaching for the hairbrush with the other.

“All right,” he said sternly—the voice of the disciplinarian too, now. “Sherlock, do you understand why you’re being punished?”

Sherlock bowed his head down onto the pillow—although he didn’t actually bury his face in it, not yet—and nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, sounding distinctly forlorn.

“Good,” John said. “Tell me, then. What did you do wrong?”

Since they’d already gone over that more than once, Sherlock had absolutely no excuse for not knowing, and sure enough his answers came as if by rote. “I was doing an experiment using hazardous chemicals without wearing gloves,” he recited dutifully.

“Correct,” John said. “Why was that wrong?”

“Because it’s not safe and I could injure myself.”

“Very true,” John agreed. “And?”

“And it was disobedient.” And Sherlock was certainly familiar enough with that particular answer.

“Also correct,” John confirmed crisply. “I’ve told you more than once: I’m not going to try to stop you from doing experiments, but I do expect you to take reasonable safety precautions when you’re doing them. You knew you should have been wearing gloves and you didn’t, so now you’re going to be punished.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly, just enough so that he could peek over his shoulder at John. “I was wearing goggles,” he offered hopefully, as if John might have forgotten that.

“Yes, you were,” John agreed. “And I’m glad you remembered to do that, at least. If you’d left those off as well, then you’d have been in even more trouble. As it is, you’re only going to be punished for the gloves and for the experiment itself. So while we’re on that topic: what else did you do wrong?”

Sherlock sighed, but once again supplied the obedient response, bowing his head back down onto his pillow. “I did an experiment that involved deliberately giving myself chemical burns.”

“And why was that wrong?”

Once again, since John had already gone over this, Sherlock was able to simply parrot his words back at him. “Because deliberately harming myself is not acceptable.”

“Correct,” John said again—and then let his voice soften, just a little. “Sherlock, I don’t want you hurt. The whole reason we started doing this is because I want you to be as safe as you reasonably can be, and you agreed that I’m the one who can make the more reasonable calls about safety. I understand that your work is sometimes dangerous, and that sometimes you might get injured and I might not be able to prevent it, no matter how hard I try. That’s one thing. But I’m damned if I’m going to allow you to injure yourself. You understand that, right?”

Sherlock had lowered his head a bit more as John spoke, almost but not quite burying his face now, and this time his voice had less of the air of someone reciting rote answers, and more of a note of genuine understanding. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

“Good,” John said, relieved. He knew Sherlock didn’t like this part any more than he liked corner time or the spanking itself, but John was convinced of the necessity of it. Not just for the sake of keeping to a routine—although that was part of it, and he believed that Sherlock did actually find the predictability of it reassuring, for all that he didn’t enjoy it while it was happening. But more importantly, John wanted to be sure that Sherlock understood exactly why he was being punished, every time. Sherlock might find the question and answer sessions vaguely insulting, but John knew better than anyone that when it came to personal matters, not to mention matters of his own safety, Sherlock could be remarkably clueless.

And since John had absolutely no wish for a confused Sherlock to mistakenly think he was being punished for something that didn’t warrant punishment—or equally that he wasn’t being punished for something that did—he intended to do his best to make sure that didn’t happen. And so, a preliminary question and answer session it was.

“All right,” he said, his tone becoming firm again as he mentally shifted gears, back into the mindset of the authority figure about to hand out punishment. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

He pressed down a little more firmly on Sherlock’s back with his free hand, and raised the hairbrush with the other. Sherlock tensed immediately as he felt the movement, and pushed his face hard into his pillow, hugging it tightly to him as he crossed his ankles in what John could only assume was a pre-emptive effort to keep himself from kicking. Given Sherlock’s demonstrated tendency to lose control of his feet when he was being spanked, though, John suspected that it wouldn’t actually make much difference.

And it certainly didn’t stop Sherlock from jumping as John brought the hairbrush down for the first time. He didn’t use a great deal of force, but then, he didn’t need to. Sherlock’s hairbrush was quite solid enough to sting even with relatively mild smacks, and as Sherlock had plaintively reminded him, John had spanked him only the day before. There was no visible trace left of that spanking today, but John was quite willing to believe that Sherlock was still feeling a bit tender behind.

However, as John had reminded Sherlock in turn, if he was going to keep misbehaving, then he was going to keep getting punished. John refused to let the claimed lingering soreness mitigate today’s punishment, so he wasted no time in setting up a sharp rhythm, the hairbrush rising and falling in quick succession to plant half a dozen good smacks across the upturned crest of Sherlock’s bottom.

“You _will_ take proper safety precautions when you’re doing experiments,” he scolded, ruthlessly forcing down the familiar, instinctive sympathy as Sherlock let out several soft gasps, flinching over John’s lap every time the hairbrush descended. His ankles remained tightly crossed, but his feet were already starting to twitch upwards, and John suspected again that the progression to kicking would be a fairly short one.

He would offer reassurance if necessary—he’d been making a point of assuring Sherlock that he could kick as much as he wanted to, and furthermore he didn’t have to stay quiet, either—but he’d give Sherlock the opportunity to get there by himself first, if he wanted to. For now, John would focus on making his other points, the rather important ones about safety precautions and experiments that involved chemical burns.

“When you’re working with hazardous chemicals,” he went on sternly, “you will wear _shoes_ … you will wear _goggles_ … and you will wear _gloves_.”

Each of those emphasised words came with a smart crack of the hairbrush, and each one elicited another little jump and gasp from Sherlock, as three more bright pink ovals were painted onto his bottom.

“These are _not_ multiple choice options,” John told him. “If you are working with something that could harm you, then you will wear _all_ … _of_ … _them_. I do _not_ want to see you _hurt_ because you took _silly_ … _risks_.”

Again, each emphasised word came with another smack of the hairbrush, and while John still wasn’t spanking especially hard, it was clear from Sherlock’s reactions that he was feeling the cumulative effect. He had started to squirm a little now, shifting his hips minutely from side to side, and he had the pillow in a stranglehold grip, clutching it to his face in what looked, as it so often did, like a determined attempt to smother himself.

He still hadn’t made a sound apart from those little muffled gasps, though, and his feet were still crossed tightly at the ankles, although his toes were curling and uncurling as if despite his efforts he couldn’t help letting them move just a little. Not that John blamed him one bit. He might not be spanking hard, but he had no doubt that Sherlock’s bottom was starting to seriously sting.

It was going to be stinging more before this was over, though, because they weren’t nearly finished yet. Determined to fully make his point, John pressed down on Sherlock’s back again, warning, and grimly raised the hairbrush in preparation for his next round of scolding.

“And if you won’t do it out of respect for your own safety,” he began, “then you will do it because _I_ … _said_ … _so_.” Once again, each of those words came with another good crack of the hairbrush on Sherlock’s bottom. “And if you _don’t_ … then you will be _punished_. Because I am _going_ … to keep you _safe_ … whether you _like_ it … or _not_.”

John made the final smack in that series particularly sharp, and it was that one that finally seemed to break Sherlock’s resolve. John didn’t doubt that Sherlock had felt all the ones that came before it, too—his squirming had become a lot more noticeable during that little speech, and his gasps into the pillow had likewise grown louder and more ragged as his breathing began to hitch. But in spite of his obvious discomfort, he had still maintained that tense, crossed-ankles pose, every muscle locked taut as he fought to keep himself in place.

Or at least, he maintained it right up until the last crack of the hairbrush, at which point he jumped sharply over John’s lap, whined plaintively into the pillow and kicked both feet hard against the mattress. Since it always, always seemed to be his feet that Sherlock lost control of first—no matter how hard he tried not to—John wasn’t at all surprised.

That said, John suspected that this sudden shift was much less a case of Sherlock actually having been pushed beyond his limit than it was Sherlock just deciding that he’d had enough of being quite that stoic. Because while Sherlock’s bottom was indeed turning a smarting shade of pink, John knew perfectly well that Sherlock could take a lot more than this without so much as a whimper if he really wanted to.

Despite knowing that, though, it took rather a lot of effort on his part to ignore the instant stab of sympathy he felt. He found he had to forcibly remind himself of exactly _what_ Sherlock had done to earn this punishment—chemical burns, John, remember the bloody chemical burns—in order to properly squash it.

Military discipline was certainly useful at times like this, though, because squash it he did, allowing not a trace of hesitation in his tone as he completed that particular section of scolding by barking out sharply, “Is that understood?”

The snapped question drew another whine from Sherlock, but he nodded hastily into the pillow, even as he continued to squirm. He was no longer kicking, but he was scrabbling at the duvet with his toes, and even as John watched, his ankles crossed, then quickly uncrossed for more scrabbling, and then crossed again.

Seeing the obvious conflict going on—to kick or not to kick, that was the question—John decided that now was the time to offer that bit of reassurance he’d intended earlier, before they moved on to the next order of business.

“Good,” he said crisply, and then allowed his voice to gentle a little. “And remember, you can kick as much as you want to. It’s just you and me here, and I don’t mind at all. And you don’t have to be quiet either, if you don’t want to be. It’s okay to let me know that it hurts. All right?”

There was no verbal answer from Sherlock—not that John had actually expected one—but the curly head jerked in another brief nod. Satisfied, John gave his back a quick, comforting pat before letting his hand go firm again, and his tone with it.

“All right,” he said. “In that case, on the topic of keeping you safe.” He applied a bit more pressure to the small of Sherlock’s back and raised the hairbrush once more, feeling Sherlock instantly tense under his hand in anticipation.

“You will _not_ deliberately harm yourself,” John began sternly, “for _any_ … _reason_.”

The first stressed word hadn’t come with an accompanying smack, but the second and third ones did. John planted both of them low, the hairbrush cracking sharply across Sherlock’s sit spot, making him gasp and flinch.

“Experiments that involve deliberately injuring yourself are _off_ … _limits_ ,” John continued, intent on making a very firm point about this. “Putting yourself in situations where you know you will get hurt is _not_ … _acceptable_. You _will_ … _not_ … _do it_.”

Those last three smacks also went low, almost onto the tops of Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock made his displeasure about this clear by voicing a muffled yelp into his pillow. He was clutching it as if for dear life, his arms wrapped around it and his face so buried that all John could see was the mess of curls on the back of his head. He would swear sometimes that if Sherlock hugged the thing any harder, the two were actually going to merge together into some sort of Sherlock-pillow hybrid—although when he’d teasingly voiced that idea to Sherlock, he’d been met with a superior sniff and a snippy retort that as a doctor, John really ought to know what was and wasn’t anatomically impossible. Still, when Sherlock appeared to be doing his damnedest to blend his face and the pillow together, John thought it was an entirely understandable bit of whimsy.

But while the pillow hugging seemed to work to keep Sherlock’s top half mostly still, his bottom half was making up for it. He was squirming in earnest now, tossing his hips from side to side as if he was trying to shake off the sting—although tellingly, not enough to actually move him out of position. He also appeared to have quite given up on the whole no kicking idea, because his feet were beating out an unhappy little tattoo on the mattress, and it didn’t seem as though he was making any effort to stop them.

That was just fine with John, though. If Sherlock wasn’t going to cry out—and the odd stifled yelp aside, it was very unlikely that he was—then John was glad that he would at least express his discomfort with a bit of wriggling around. Sherlock might not like what he perceived as a loss of dignity, but John _really_ didn’t like the idea of Sherlock feeling that he had to take his punishments in stoic, silent stillness.

He raised the hairbrush again, wanting now just to get the rest of it over with. “And once again,” he intoned, thinking that a repetition of this point could only be a good thing, “if you won’t do this out of respect for your own safety, then you will do it because _I_ … _said_ … _so_.”

The last three words came, predictably, with three more solid cracks of the hairbrush on Sherlock’s bottom, each one deepening the vivid pink flush already present and each one seeming to ratchet Sherlock’s unhappy squirming up yet another notch. His feet drummed on the bed, braced and dug into the duvet, and then kicked some more, and John found himself wondering again if Sherlock had been imagining this when he’d decided to take his pants off rather than just pushing them down. He wouldn’t be surprised; Sherlock could be very practical when he wanted to be. And the way he was carrying on, if he had still been wearing them then they certainly wouldn’t have still been tidily at his knees by now.

Those observations aside, though, John forced himself to ignore Sherlock’s increasingly distressed reactions, firmly shoving down the sympathy that kept trying to bubble up. He still had some final points to make before they were finished, and he fully intended to make them in a way that Sherlock wouldn’t soon forget.

“And if you disobey me,” he said, raising the hairbrush once again, “then you will get _spanked_.”

That came with another particularly sharp smack, and Sherlock flinched and whined pitifully as it connected, toes scrabbling frantically at the duvet. Steeling himself, John ignored that too and forged resolutely ahead, determined to finish off his scolding.

“If you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe,” he went on, making sure that his voice was especially stern for this bit, “then _I_ … will do it _for_ you.”

That had become something of a catchphrase, and John knew that despite any complaints he might make about it—and despite how forbidding John might sound when he said it—Sherlock nevertheless found it comforting to hear, which was in large part why John had chosen to end his lecture with it. And it wasn’t as though he only said it to be reassuring—it was entirely true, and, he thought, quite a nice summation of exactly why they had begun this arrangement in the first place.

Of course, as comforting as the words might have been, they also came with two smart smacks to the very tops of Sherlock’s thighs, which Sherlock understandably found a lot less pleasing. The first one made him jump hard, and the second pulled another muffled, startled yelp from him, as he began instantly drumming his feet on the mattress again. He wriggled over John’s lap, twisting his hips from side to side as much as he could without actually shifting himself out of place, and panted into his pillow as John followed up the smacks with a last, sternly voiced question.

“Is that very clearly understood?” he demanded, and Sherlock nodded frantically into the pillow, his curls bouncing with the motion. He made no attempt to answer out loud, and John wasn’t about to force him to; a nod to indicate that Sherlock understood was fine by him.

And with Sherlock’s acknowledgement that he did understand, they really were almost there. John intended to make one final point by administering a few more smacks without the accompanying scolding, to give Sherlock a last few moments to think about what he’d said while he was still over John’s knee with a stinging bottom to keep him focused on it. But at this point, he thought half a dozen ought to be plenty.

Unlike the first few times he’d done this, when he’d been very cautious about the amount of force to use and how many smacks was reasonable, he had a much better idea now of what would only cause surface sting versus what would leave actual bruises. Sherlock’s bottom was already a vivid, smarting pink, especially low down on his sit spots where it was the most sensitive, and John had no doubt that he was bloody sore as it was. But he had been carefully moderating the force of the smacks, and surface sting was really all it was, albeit plenty of it. Another six good smacks on top of that, he thought, would be enough to make an effective final point, but without going overboard.

“Good,” he said firmly, and quickly continued on, “Last bit, then. Six more.” Sherlock let out a plaintive whine of protest at this, and John patted his back in brisk encouragement, even as the sound tugged sharply at his heartstrings.

“None of that,” he said, managing—just—to keep the sympathy out his tone. “You can do it. You think about what I’ve just said to you and why you’re being punished.” He patted Sherlock’s back again, unable to resist offering a little more reassurance, and this time his voice did soften just a bit, seemingly of its own volition. “Just six more. Deep breath and be brave.”

Sherlock obediently sucked in a breath, clutching his pillow even more tightly, and actually mostly stopped squirming as he braced himself—although even then his toes continued to dig at the duvet, as if his feet were simply refusing to stay still.

_Hot feet_ , John’s mind supplied randomly, and if he hadn’t been in the middle of being the disciplinarian then he probably would have smiled, because much of the time that really did describe Sherlock perfectly.

Right now, though, it was more like hot bottom than hot feet, and it was going to get a bit hotter still before John called this finished. Taking a moment to steel himself once again for this last part, he pressed down a little harder on the small of Sherlock’s back, although it was more for comfort and a bit of extra bracing than for real restraint, and raised the hairbrush.

Sherlock tensed even more as he felt the movement, but his attempt at stillness only lasted as long as it took for John to actually bring the hairbrush down. He planted a solid smack low across Sherlock’s bottom, and Sherlock gasped and almost bounced over his lap, before promptly starting to kick at the bed again, even more energetically than before. The second smack, in the matching spot on the other side, elicited much the same reaction, although this time it came with something that sounded very much like stifled sniffling.

The sorrowful sound went straight to John’s heart, but thank Christ they really were almost done now, and he refused to let himself cave in this close to the end, no matter how much Sherlock’s tearful sniffles made him want to. Reminding himself once again that Sherlock really did deserve every bit of this—chemical burns, John, chemical burns—he raised the hairbrush again to administer the last four.

These went on Sherlock’s thighs, two good, sharp smacks to each, while John tried to find a balance between wanting to get it over with, and leaving reasonable intervals in between to give Sherlock the aforementioned time to think. Or if not to think, then at least, hopefully, to remember what John had been scolding him about, and perhaps even associate it with his sore and stinging bottom. If they were very lucky, John thought grimly, he might not even delete it too quickly.

Sherlock, meanwhile, appeared to have given up almost all restraint for this final part, something he seemed to be developing a tendency to do if he knew for certain that a spanking was just about to end. There were no more yelps, but he jumped, writhed and gasped his way through the last four, twisting over John’s lap and kicking frantically at the mattress. His breath took on an audible hitch as he hugged his pillow to his face, snuffling into it in an increasingly piteous fashion as one, two, three and then four smacks left bright pink ovals on the pale skin of his thighs.

But that was finally the end of it, and now that John didn’t have to keep holding onto his disciplinarian face, those mournful sniffles—along with the knowledge that if Sherlock wasn’t actually in tears he was certainly right on the verge of it—were setting off every instinct for caretaking he had. Wanting nothing more than to gather Sherlock into the cuddle that he so obviously needed, John dropped the hairbrush onto the bed in relief and swiftly began rubbing Sherlock’s back, murmuring instinctive words of comfort as his voice lowered instantly into his familiar soft, post-spanking tones.

“Okay,” he soothed, his hands moving in gentle little circles on Sherlock’s back and shoulders. “All right, Sherlock, that’s the end of it. It’s all over now. All over now, all finished, and now it’s cuddle time.”

Sherlock was still wriggling and shifting in obvious discomfort, but at the mention of cuddle time he nodded fervently into his pillow, a gesture that John took to mean ‘cuddle time now please’. He seemed entirely disinclined to move, though, as he usually was now that he’d realised that John would move around him. Luckily, John had become quite good at the manoeuvring required to extricate himself, and in a very short time he was stretching himself out on the bed beside Sherlock’s prone form, tugging gently but insistently on the pillow that Sherlock was still holding to his face.

“Come on,” he urged, in the same tender tone. “It’s cuddle time now, so come out of there so that I can give you a proper hug. You don’t need the pillow when you’ve got me.”

It didn’t actually take much to persuade Sherlock to let go of the pillow, not when there was a cuddle on offer instead, and as soon as it was out of the way John pulled him in for a hug. For his part, Sherlock seemed very willing to be pulled, and he wasted no time in fairly gluing himself to John’s side, burying his face firmly in his favoured spot on John’s shoulder. His free arm slid around John’s waist and held on tightly, his fingers locking around a handful of John’s shirt, and then he just clung there, his breath coming in unsteady little hitches as he continued to sniffle forlornly.

John, too, had taken up the position that was becoming second nature to him now, holding Sherlock close with one hand cupping his head, and the other resting in between his shoulder blades. He carded the first hand into Sherlock’s tousled hair, and began rubbing his back gently with the other, his palm gliding up and down in a slow, soothing motion, feeling the bony knobs of Sherlock’s spine—and bloody hell, he really needed to make Sherlock eat more—as well as the stressed muscles, quivering like strung wires under his touch.

John thought the quivering was probably as much from the release of tension now that the spanking was over as it was from Sherlock truly being overwrought, but there was certainly no question that he was sore and upset. And just like the sniffling, Sherlock’s distressed trembling called very loudly indeed to John’s caretaking instincts. Still rubbing Sherlock’s back tenderly, he did his best to offer comfort, with both his hands and his voice.

“That’s right,” he murmured, crooning the words softly into Sherlock’s ear. “That’s much more like it. It’s cuddle time now, so you just hold on to me until you feel better. I’m right here to look after you, and I’m not going anywhere. You hold on to me for as long as you like.”

He knew Sherlock was well aware that cuddle time after a punishment would go on for as long as he wanted it to—John had both repeated it over and over and, he hoped, amply proven it with every punishment Sherlock had had so far—but he still liked to make a point of saying it. He wanted Sherlock to be able to compose himself fully in his own time, without conditions, and he definitely didn’t ever want him thinking that there was a limit to how much comforting John was prepared to do. Cuddle time went on until Sherlock had had enough, no ifs, ands or buts.

And for all that Sherlock was well aware of this, he didn’t seem to mind John repeating it. He was so tightly wedged against John’s side that they couldn’t really get much closer, but as John spoke Sherlock made a good attempt at it, wriggling himself even more firmly into the warmth of John’s body and clinging to him with fervent strength. John took a moment to hug him just as tightly in return, squeezing the wiry frame hard against him as Sherlock snuggled close, but then let his grip loosen again so that he could keep rubbing Sherlock’s back, still murmuring reassurance all the while.

“There, there,” he soothed, the words coming low and warm and soft. “Shhh, it’s all over now. All finished and forgiven, and you were very brave, you did really well. And now you get to have a good long cuddle to make it feel better. That’s right, you just hold on to me, and I’ll hold on to you too. That’s my good Sherlock. Shhh, that’s it, you just let me look after you now.”

Not that he really thought Sherlock needed any convincing about that, given the way he had jammed himself up against John’s side, but it was just part of John’s consoling litany, another point of reassurance to offer to a distressed and well-spanked Sherlock.

He said much the same things during every cuddle time, really—not always with the clear intention to mimic himself, certain catchphrases aside, but it just seemed only logical to say things that he thought would be comforting, or that Sherlock had appeared to find comforting on previous occasions. The wording might be slightly different each time, but the sentiment behind the words was always the same. And for all that Sherlock might disdain it at other times, John thought it was the sentiment that he responded to just as much, that clear message of comfort, of reassurance, of caring. And an affirmation, too: that John was there, and that he would continue to be there, as a solid, steady presence in Sherlock’s world.

John firmly believed that Sherlock needed those things—needed them badly, and had gone without them for far too long. And if Sherlock’s snuggly reactions were any indication, then at least on some level he seemed to agree. He might not have let anyone but John do it—he _wouldn’t_ let anyone but John do it; John knew that was true without Sherlock ever having to tell him—but his eager acceptance of cuddle time said that the need was certainly there, and had probably been there for a much longer time than John liked to think about.

Thoughts like that tended to only make him feel even more protective, especially when Sherlock was still sniffling into his shoulder, and John found himself hugging Sherlock tightly again, holding him close for a long moment before he let his hands relax once more. Sherlock didn’t appear to object to the squeezing, because even through his still hitching snuffles he nuzzled his face against John’s shoulder. Touched, John leaned down to kiss the top of his head, earning himself another nuzzle and a soft, shuddery sigh.

“That’s my good Sherlock,” John told him again, softly. “I’m here to look after you now.”

Which was the unabashed truth, and also why, John reminded himself, in the end it was all fine. It was all fine because John _was_ here now, and he wasn’t going anywhere, and he was more than happy to provide comfort and caring and affirmation as often as Sherlock needed it. And as he’d just taken pains to point out to Sherlock during his spanking, he _was_ going to look after his mad detective, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

For right now, at least, he seemed to like it very much, and John was quite willing to oblige him with more of it. With Sherlock snuggled securely against his side, John gladly let himself relax into the cuddle time zone, rubbing Sherlock’s back, carding gentle fingers through his hair, and murmuring a soft refrain of praise and reassurance, all the familiar sentiment-laden words that seemed to come so easily at such times.

Sherlock continued to cling to him like a limpet at first, but it wasn’t long before he began to relax in John’s arms—he was sore and upset, but not so much that he couldn’t be quickly soothed now that it was all over. As John held him close, the trembling tension gradually left his body, and the hitches and sniffles quieted into slow, even breaths. He didn’t stop holding on, but as his muscles relaxed and his breathing eased, his clutching grip loosened with them, leaving his fingers lightly curled around the comforting fold of John’s shirt. It was, as always, an act John found incredibly endearing, even if he never mentioned that to Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was almost limp against John’s side now, his arm draped across John’s middle like a wet noodle. John suspected that he was probably likely to drop off for a nap any minute, if he hadn’t already. Odds were it wouldn’t be a very long nap, but Sherlock’s tendency to fall asleep during cuddle time was already becoming well ingrained.

John was just starting to get settled in for the expected nap, thinking that he might just have one himself too while the opportunity was there, when the quiet was abruptly intruded upon by the familiar chime of Sherlock’s phone. It was coming from the floor—well, actually from Sherlock’s trousers on the floor, John assumed. The interesting part was that he’d thought that Sherlock’s phone was still on the kitchen table, where he’d left it when John had interrupted his experimental photo series. He must have snagged it back at some point, although for the life of him John couldn’t remember seeing him do it.

_Mr Sleight of Hand strikes again_ , John thought fondly, as Sherlock rather blearily raised his head at the familiar sound. His flushed cheeks and slightly reddened eyes attested to his recent tears, but he no longer appeared to be at all distressed, just sleepy.

He glanced in the direction of his phone, and then back at John, raising one eyebrow in a manner that looked incongruously haughty next to his drowsy expression.

“Up to you,” John told him easily, answering the unasked question. “Check it if you want; the cuddle isn’t going anywhere.”

That appeared to decide him, because John was then treated to the rather endearing sight of Sherlock attempting to scoot backwards down the bed far enough that he could get at his phone, while still apparently trying to keep as much physical contact with John as he could. Eventually, and with the help of Sherlock’s long arms, he was able to hook his trousers up from the floor and fish his phone out of the pocket, at which point he promptly scooted back up to the level of John’s shoulder to check it.

“Lestrade,” he said after a pause, eyeing the screen and looking considerably more alert. “There’s a scene he wants us to look at. An apparent suicide that could be a murder.”

He cast John another questioning look. It wasn’t quite asking for permission—because it was a _case_ and Sherlock would never actually ask permission for a case—but it was perhaps something not unlike it.

And John thought he might understand why, having just realised that this was, rather amazingly when he thought about it, the first time their immediate spanking-and-cuddle-time ritual had actually been directly interrupted. And it really _was_ rather amazing now that he was thinking about it; what with Sherlock getting called for cases at all manner of hours, it was probably only sheer luck that a call hadn’t come during one of his punishments before now.

Although there had been the one incident with the smack for attitude during their discussion about the rules. The attached cuddle time for that one had ended up coming after not only the rest of their conversation, but also a visit to a crime scene _and_ the subsequent dashing around as Sherlock worked on solving the case. It had just been the one smack that time, but John had still intended to set the precedent that Sherlock would get cuddle time after every punishment, even if it had to be delayed.

That had just been the one smack, though, and the text from Lestrade had really only extended an interruption that was already going on. This was a rather different situation, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Sherlock—master of deduction though he was—might still be just a little unsure of how John intended to handle it. John had promised not to interfere with Sherlock’s work (health and safety issues aside, of course), but they hadn’t specifically discussed how to deal with this particular scenario. John realised now, with some chagrin, that even when he’d been trying to think of everything during their conversation about the rules, for some reason this possibility simply hadn’t occurred to him.

Well, he thought, trying to look on the bright side, luckily for them both this first time was an easy one. They’d definitely have to talk about what to do for less easy ones if and when they occurred, but for right now, the actual spanking was over, and Sherlock had been cuddled and soothed enough to be calm and perfectly functional. There was, thus, no reason why they shouldn’t up sticks and head straight off to the crime scene so long as Sherlock felt ready to.

And if it happened that Sherlock wanted to count his cuddle time as only half finished, and have the rest once they got home again, then that would be just fine with John. He had promised as much cuddle time as Sherlock wanted after every punishment, and he fully intended to stick to it.

He gave Sherlock a little smile—much more the smile of a partner in crime, or rather in solving crime, now. “We’d better get a move on then, hadn’t we?” he said. “If you’re ready, you can get up whenever you like.”

Sherlock looked—pleased, John thought, and expectantly excited, and perhaps a bit relieved. But there was a flicker of something else in his eyes too, and while John wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of his interpretation of that flicker, his instincts told him that it said _doubt_.

He responded to it just as instinctively, voicing out loud what he had been thinking just a moment before. “The cuddle still isn’t going anywhere,” he told Sherlock firmly. “If you want to, we can pick up right where we left off once we get home. Or after the bloody case is solved, if it comes to that.”

And just like that, the flicker was gone. “All right,” Sherlock agreed in an even tone, although he was obviously pleased. Maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious to everyone, but it was to John.

“Right, then,” he said fondly. “In that case, we can go whenever you’re ready.”

That got him a quick little flash of a smile, and then Sherlock was sliding gingerly off the bed and making a hasty grab for the rest of his clothes. As he began scrambling back into them, giving only minimal deference to what had to be a still stinging bottom, John slid off the other side, ran his hands through his hair in a cursory attempt to tidy himself up a bit, and then headed for the living room to get his jacket.

Sherlock joined him in what was probably under a minute, and how he’d managed to get himself fully dressed again complete with coat and gloves in that amount of time was beyond John. But then, he thought affectionately, Sherlock was frequently capable of impossible things, so he supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised by such mundane talents as the ability to put clothes on at super speed.

“Ready?” he asked, and Sherlock replied by simply breezing past him and out the door.

Rolling his eyes, and silently hoping that this new case wouldn’t involve any more drama than the norm, John followed.

 


	2. Dizzying Heights of Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I’d be able to get this one done in two chapters, but it’s getting so long that it’s going to have to be three. This one is really more like half a chapter, so I apologise for it ending on a bit of a cliffhanger. But hopefully the next chapter will be ready in a much more timely fashion, fingers crossed!
> 
> This one also contains discussion of a possible suicide as part of the case Sherlock is investigating, so please be aware if you think that could upset you.

 

The crime scene – or potential crime scene at least, from what Sherlock had relayed to John – was on a commercial building site, fenced off from the street and littered with construction materials and heavy machinery amidst partly constructed buildings. The entrance to the site was cordoned off with police tape, and rather to John’s dismay, Sally Donovan was standing guard there. She ignored John, as she usually did, but directed a nasty look at Sherlock.

“Hello, freak,” she said. “Here to get your jollies, are you?”

Sherlock ignored her and simply ducked under the tape, but John shot her an irritated look as he followed. He knew Sherlock often gave as good as he got with Donovan, but he really wished she wouldn’t taunt him like that. And it bothered the hell out of John when she called Sherlock ‘freak’, as though he was some kind of monster just because he liked solving mysteries and didn’t care if they were grisly ones. Sherlock might hide it well, but John knew now how much it hurt him to have people think that he was somehow fundamentally bad. Worse, John was pretty sure that Sherlock had, for a long time, been operating under the assumption that those people were right.

John made a determined mental note to remind Sherlock when they got home that Sally Donovan was full of shit. He’d have done it now, except that Sherlock would most likely be too focused on the case to really hear him. But he owed Sherlock the rest of a cuddle anyway, once they were finished here, so he could provide a bit of extra reassurance while he was at it.

He followed Sherlock over to the main cluster of police, spotting Lestrade standing among them. There were screens up to shield the scene itself from view, and John grimaced. It must be a messy one if they’d decided to screen it off. But then … he glanced up at the mostly completed building they were standing beside, which was six storeys tall. Sherlock had said an apparent suicide that could be a murder, so if the victim had jumped – or been pushed – from up there … yeah, that would be messy, all right.

Lestrade came over to greet them, looking relieved to see Sherlock. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “This is an odd one. It looks like it could be a suicide, but there are some things that don’t add up, and it’s got me wondering.”

“Things only don’t add up when you don’t know what you’re looking at,” Sherlock retorted, and ducked past the screens to get to the body. John caught Lestrade’s long-suffering look and gave him a quick, sympathetic grin before he followed Sherlock.

It was a messy one. John had seen worse in the past, but still, it wasn’t a pleasant sight. Sherlock, of course, seemed entirely unaffected by the gore, and was simply examining the scene with interest, his sharp gaze raking over the body and its surroundings. His intent expression told John that he was deducing furiously, even as he remained silent.

Lestrade had followed them in. “Michael Mills, maintenance engineer,” he said. “He signed in at the site early this morning, and was found like this two hours later. The bloke who found him is a mate of his, and he was adamant that Mr Mills would not have committed suicide. We’ve also talked to his wife; she’s equally adamant that he wasn’t suicidal. She says he told her he was going in to work to check on something and he’d be home in a few hours. Apparently that’s not unusual on the weekends, so she didn’t think anything of it. She does remember that he got a phone call before he left, but he didn’t mention who it was.”

“It’s not unheard of for family and friends to be unaware that someone was suicidal,” John offered cautiously. “People who are can sometimes hide it very well.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lestrade. “And there’s still a good chance that that’s what it was. But I’d like to rule out any possibility of foul play before I start saying definitely suicide. There’s also the possibility of an accident of some kind, in which case we need to know that, too.”

“The friend and the wife both said there hasn’t been even a hint of depression,” Sherlock put in, his tone curt. “You found them convincing. And in the brief check you’ve done so far, nothing has come up as an outstanding reason for suicide; no money worries, no employment problems, no family strife to speak of.”

“Nothing we’ve found yet,” Lestrade confirmed evenly. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything, though. But I’d like your opinion. Are we looking at a suicide here, or was it something else?”

“I need to see the roof,” Sherlock said. “He is assumed to have fallen from the roof, yes?”

“Where else would he have fallen from?” Lestrade replied, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t expecting an answer. “Come on, I’ll take you. I’ve been up there and I couldn’t see much of anything, but God knows you will if there’s anything to see.”

John followed him as Lestrade stepped back out from behind the screens, Sherlock quickly overtaking them both as they headed around the building. By the time they got inside to the lifts – which luckily worked, but then it looked like this building was basically finished except for cosmetic stuff – Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“Probably took the stairs,” Lestrade said wryly. “Bet he’d be bored in a lift.”

John chuckled, although he made a mental note to have another word with Sherlock about his habit of disappearing at crime scenes. Okay, in this instance John knew where he was going and he wasn’t worried, but still, it wouldn’t have killed Sherlock to just wait for them.

Sure enough, when they got out onto the roof Sherlock was already there, hovering at the edge and examining the area directly above where the body lay. John and Lestrade stopped several paces away from him, watching as he pored over the ground and the low ledge.

“We’re still hoping someone might have seen something,” Lestrade said, gesturing to the numerous other buildings that were in view around the site. “But you’d have to have the right angle, and most of this is offices anyway. Pretty empty on the weekends.”

John nodded; that would definitely lengthen the odds of someone happening to be looking out the right window at the right time. “And there wasn’t anyone else on the site?” he asked curiously.

“A couple of people in one of the other buildings, but they were inside and apparently they didn’t hear a thing,” Lestrade said. “If it was suicide, he picked a good quiet time to do it.”

“But you’ve got doubts that it was,” John said. Lestrade gave a noncommittal hum.

“I’ve got some,” he said. “At first glance it does look likely to be suicide. Mr Mills handled maintenance of the heavy machinery, cranes and such. This building’s practically finished and there’s no machinery on the roof for him to check, so he had no reason to be up here for work. That makes it less likely that it was an accident of some kind. And like you said, it’s not unheard of for family and friends to be unaware. He could have been suffering in silence; he finally reaches his breaking point so he comes in to the site when it’s quiet, comes up here and jumps.”

John could hear the unspoken ‘but’ tacked onto the end of that, and supplied it himself. “But?”

“But,” Lestrade confirmed, “Sherlock’s right, I did find both the friend and the wife convincing. They’re both very certain that he wouldn’t have killed himself. And Sherlock’s also right that so far there doesn’t appear to have been anything going on in Mr Mills’ life that would be an outstanding reason. Of course that doesn’t prove anything, there doesn’t necessarily have to be a concrete reason. But Mills doesn’t have any background of depression or mental illness, so if he’s had some kind of breakdown, then he’s apparently hidden it very well.”

“It does happen,” John said quietly, and Lestrade nodded.

“Yeah. And it’s still possible that’s exactly what this was. The fact that he didn’t seem to have any reason to come up here for work certainly points to it. But there is still a chance that there’s a reason we don’t know about and it was an accident, in which case I’d like to know for the sake of his family if nothing else. Not to mention if it was an accident then there’ll have to be an investigation by the company.”

He didn’t mention the third possibility, so John did. “And if it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t suicide either?”

Lestrade gave him a grim smile. “Then we’ve got our work cut out for us, because if someone else was involved then they seem to have vanished into thin air. But that’s why I wanted Sherlock to come and have a look. If anyone can tell one way or the other with something like this, it’ll be him.”

John glanced automatically at Sherlock, who had stepped away from the edge of the roof and was now backtracking, still studying the ground intently. As they watched, he slowly paced back across to the door leading to the stairs and began examining that instead, leaning close until he was practically sniffing at it.

“Sometimes I think he’s a human bloodhound,” remarked Lestrade, who had apparently been thinking along the same lines. John gave a snort of amusement, just as Sherlock stepped away from the door, gave it a last long look and then turned to face back out over the roof.

Curious, John watched as Sherlock walked across to the ledge again, stopped, and then pivoted in a slow circle, his head up as if he was scanning the surrounding area. Then, without a word to John or Lestrade, he abruptly turned again in a swirl of coat, strode back over to the door and promptly vanished through it.

“And off he goes again,” Lestrade said with a sigh. “I suppose he’s going back down to the body.”

“He’d better be,” John said, as they started to follow. He was _definitely_ going to be having a word with Sherlock about running off on crime scenes without telling John where he was going.

“Worst case scenario, he’s worked out that it was a murder and who did it, and he’s gone off to catch them by himself,” Lestrade said wryly.

John knew he’d meant it mostly as a joke, but as he and Lestrade exchanged a glance, he knew the other man was thinking much the same thing as he was: that it was entirely possible and that it wouldn’t be the first time. Without another word, they both began to walk faster.

Not fast enough, though. By the time they got back down to where the body lay, there was, again, no sign of Sherlock.

“Bugger it,” John muttered under his breath, and glanced grimly at Lestrade. “If he actually has gone to catch a murderer by himself, I’m going to kill him.”

“I don’t think he was leaving the site, sir,” one of the other officers put in, having apparently overheard and guessed who they were looking for. “He didn’t go towards the exit, anyway. He went that way.” He pointed further into the interior of the site. John glanced in that direction, but he couldn’t see very far before there was another half-constructed building in the way.

“That’s something, at least,” Lestrade said. “Well, unless he’s decided to nick out the back door.”

“Is there a back door?” John asked in sudden horror.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” Lestrade said. “Not that he couldn’t climb over the fence if he wanted to, but I can’t see why he’d bother. He’s never been shy about just taking off when it suits him.”

That was true, although John wondered if Sherlock might perhaps be shy about taking off if he knew he was going somewhere that John would be unhappy about. Still, that wouldn’t explain him sneaking off out some back way when John hadn’t even been there to stop him. Even if Sherlock was worried about possible punishment afterwards, it wasn’t like John wouldn’t find out what he’d done either way, so his point of exit wasn’t going to make any difference.

Besides, John wasn’t at all sure that Sherlock was anywhere near the point where he’d actually consider the possible consequences _before_ he did something mad at a crime scene. John sincerely hoped that they’d get there one day, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think that it was going to be a quick transition.

However, for now he was going to hope that the fact that Sherlock had apparently gone deeper into the building site rather than leaving it meant that he had simply gone to look for further evidence, instead of taking off to do something mad. John wasn’t sure what evidence he might be looking for that was nowhere near the actual scene, but knowing Sherlock it was quite possible that he’d made some connective leap of logic and thought of something. And no doubt, whatever it was he’d be more than happy to explain it to them when he came back.

John continued to gamely think along these optimistic lines, at the same time promising himself a strong word with Sherlock about running off without him on crime scenes, until he heard Lestrade say in tones of obvious exasperation, “Oh, bloody hell!”

John glanced automatically in his direction, only to find that Lestrade was looking out and past him. Past him in the direction that Sherlock had reportedly gone in. Past him and _up_.

His heart sinking, John braced himself and turned to look … and immediately understood Lestrade’s reaction.

“Oh, bloody hell!” he echoed, because sure enough there was Sherlock, who had just become visible above the roof of the next half-completed building. But it was the reason he had become visible that was the cause of John’s dismay, because Sherlock was currently busily involved in climbing up the bloody tower crane.

“What the hell is he doing?” Lestrade muttered, then glanced at John. By unspoken agreement, they began to hurry in the direction of the crane.

By the time they got around the next building, Sherlock had got up to the level of the crane’s cabin. He was too high for them to see what he was doing in any detail, but he appeared to have got the door open and was poking around inside. John stopped, wanting to follow but hesitant to go any closer and lose sight of Sherlock, which he thought he probably would if he was right underneath the crane.

He just hoped that Sherlock would come straight back down again after he’d seen what he wanted to in the cab. At the moment, at least, all he’d done was climb up the ladders … but still, he was hardly dressed for playing around on construction cranes. He was still wearing his bloody coat, for God’s sake, and John doubted that his shoes had much in the way of grip. If he slipped on one of those ladders …

That decided him. He started towards the crane again, and Lestrade, who had stopped with him, hastily moved to catch up.

“I’m going to go up after him,” John said grimly. “Would you stay down here, keep an eye on what he’s doing?”

“Yeah, sure,” Lestrade agreed at once. “Look, be careful, yeah? Last thing we need is – oh, Christ.”

John’s heart leapt into his throat, although on some level he knew that Lestrade’s tone hadn’t been nearly dire enough for something awful to have happened. Nevertheless, when he automatically looked up to see what Sherlock was doing, his heart remained firmly lodged where it had ascended to, because now Sherlock had apparently finished in the crane’s cab, but instead of climbing back down he was actually _going out onto the bloody boom_.

John stopped in his tracks again, once more torn between desperately wanting to get up there and not wanting to take his eyes off Sherlock. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “Christ, he doesn’t have a safety harness on, if he falls …”

“He’s not going to fall,” Lestrade said, but his voice was tense. “He’s bloody Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn’t stoop to falling off a crane.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and nudged John’s shoulder. “John, go. Go up after him and bloody get him down. I’ll keep an eye on him from down here.”

“Right,” John agreed, and sprinted for the crane. He knew it was probably a pointless gesture; by the time he even got up there Sherlock would probably already be coming down again – or at least John desperately hoped that he would – but he couldn’t just stand around and do nothing.

The ladders were easy enough to climb, although John could definitely feel his heart rate increasing in response – but then, that might have been coming more from his anxiety over Sherlock’s position than from the physical exertion. When he looked up he could _see_ Sherlock out on the boom, out much too far and doing God only knew what, and he just prayed that whatever it was Sherlock was doing would be finished sooner rather than later, and preferably _very_ soon, like right this second now. For Christ’s sake, there were reasons why people wore safety harnesses when they climbed out on these things; all it would take was a strong gust of wind or a particularly slippery spot and there would be absolutely nothing that John could do …

He tried to climb faster, and he was nearing the level of the cabin when Sherlock – thank _Christ_ – started to slowly move back towards the tower. John didn’t allow himself too much premature relief, however, because Sherlock still had to get back _to_ the tower. And then they both had to get down _from_ the tower, and John wasn’t really going to relax until Sherlock’s feet were safely back on the ground.

But since Sherlock was, thank Christ, coming back in off the boom now, John waited for him on the platform directly below the cabin; there wasn’t a lot of room up there and he didn’t want to crowd Sherlock or distract him. He waited tensely, his eyes as locked on Sherlock as they could be through the metal lattice of the crane, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Sherlock made it back to the tower without incident. He was then even more relieved when Sherlock made straight for the ladder, and without hesitation began to carefully climb back down.

As Sherlock came properly into view, though, John found that the relief at seeing him unharmed was swiftly beginning to war with absolute bloody fury at Sherlock having done something so recklessly dangerous in the first place. And as much as he wanted to get them both back down on the ground as quickly as possible, he was suddenly so angry that he found he simply couldn’t help himself. As soon as Sherlock’s feet touched the safety of the platform, John took full advantage of the relative privacy that being at the top of a crane afforded them, electing in an instant not to concern himself with whether or not Lestrade could still see them from where he was. Before Sherlock could do more than glance at him, John took him very firmly by the arm, planted his own feet to make sure that he could keep his balance, and planted a sharp, reprimanding smack across Sherlock’s bottom.

Sherlock gave a squeak of surprise, his mouth dropping open in astonished indignation. “John!” he complained, sounding scandalised. “We’re in public!”

“We’re at the top of a crane,” John retorted. “It’s not very bloody public. And you deserved it, and you deserve a damn sight more than that. What in God’s name were you thinking climbing up here?”

“I was looking for _evidence_ , of course,” Sherlock said, still looking thoroughly affronted. His free hand went back to press against the spot John had smacked, although since his coat had been in the way John doubted that he’d even really felt it.

“And going out onto the boom?” he demanded. “Without a bloody safety harness? For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, what if you’d fallen off? You’d have been killed!”

“I wasn’t going to fall off!” Sherlock said. “And I had to check the boom for evidence, as I said. I was careful!”

“Careful would have been using a safety harness,” John replied grimly. “Careful would have been telling someone what you needed to do and getting _help_. Careful does _not_ cover climbing up here by yourself and waltzing out onto the boom of a bloody crane as if you think gravity doesn’t apply to you!”

“I did not _waltz_!” Sherlock protested hotly, and the fact that he’d only chosen that part to argue about might actually have made John laugh if he hadn’t been so pissed off.

In fact, if he was being honest, it very nearly made him laugh anyway, despite being so pissed off. He supposed it was partly the sheer relief; that had always tended to put him on a bit of an emotional seesaw.

As it was, though, the momentary hesitation did serve to make him aware that they were both losing their tempers now, and that the top of a crane probably wasn’t the most sensible place to be doing that. He could also admit, once he took a moment to think about it, that it was his own fault; he’d started it by reacting angrily and he’d taken Sherlock by surprise, which had naturally got his back up. The public reprimand, despite not being very public, would have only added to that.

Not to mention, if John was being fair, he should have understood that Sherlock’s mind was very much in case mode right now. Even if Sherlock had known that he’d be in trouble for climbing up the crane – and that was by no means a given, in fact from his reaction John suspected that he’d been so focused on the case that it hadn’t even occurred to him – but even if he _had_ , then he’d have no doubt been expecting any scolding and discipline to take place once they got home, after the case was all over.

And really, that was what ought to have happened. Instead, John had let his temper get the better of him, when he should have just been concentrating on getting them both safely back down on the ground. That was on him, not on Sherlock, and it was up to him to now defuse the situation. Sherlock was still in trouble, absolutely, but John was big enough to admit that his own behaviour hadn’t been the best either.

With that firmly in mind, he bit back the scolding words that had been on the tip of his tongue, took a deep breath and glanced very deliberately over the side of the crane, down towards the ground. It was a very long way down, and a very good reminder of exactly why they didn’t need to be distracted by an argument right now, and it helped both to steady John and to cool his temper even further.

He blew out a quick, forceful breath and turned back to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Okay,” he said, making a conscious effort to lower his voice. “This isn’t the place to be doing this. We need to get down from here.”

Sherlock eyed him sullenly in return, his mouth fixed in a pout. “You started it,” he reminded John crossly. “I _was_ coming down.”

“I know I started it,” John said, quite willing to admit the fault. “And I shouldn’t have, not here. I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have done that. But you scared the hell out of me, Sherlock. I was bloody terrified that you were going to fall off.”

Sherlock’s expression softened slightly, as if the reminder that John cared about him was enough to mollify him a little, although he still looked impressively sulky. “I was being careful,” he informed John in a lofty tone.

“I beg to differ,” John replied evenly, and gave Sherlock a stern, meaningful look. “But we’ll talk about _that_ when we get home. For now, let’s just get off this thing.”

Sherlock looked a bit wary at that, as if the possibility of being in trouble once they got home was only just dawning on him, despite John having smacked him once already. He made no protest, though – at least, not yet – and when John released his arm and nudged him towards the ladder he went without argument. But after all, John thought wryly, Sherlock did have a case to solve, and he wasn’t going to be able to do it from on top of a crane.

The climb back down was, thankfully, a lot less fraught than the climb up had been. Now that John had Sherlock safely in front of him – or underneath him as the case may be, since Sherlock was going down first – and he no longer felt like he was desperately racing against time, it was even a little bit enjoyable, despite his serious displeasure over Sherlock’s recklessness. He’d never been up on one of these things before, and it was quite interesting to see how it was put together.

That said, he still made sure to be damn careful with his footing, and he kept a close eye on Sherlock, too. Now that Sherlock was out of directly imminent danger, John was rather more conscious of his own safety as well as Sherlock’s, and he was very aware that they were climbing down narrow ladders that were God only knew how high up off the ground. Vaguely interesting it might be, but he’d still be much happier when they were safely back at street level.

Luckily, now that he no longer felt as though he was rushing to try to prevent disaster, the climb back down also seemed to go by quite a bit faster than the climb up, and almost before John knew it they were stepping back off onto solid ground. He allowed himself a heartfelt sigh of relief, watching in resignation as beside him, Sherlock straightened out his coat and brushed himself off, once again looking entirely unruffled by the whole business.

Lestrade, however, did _not_ look unruffled. He looked like John felt – relieved and pissed off and coming down off an adrenaline rush – and he stormed over to confront Sherlock like a man who was seriously on the warpath.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” he demanded, before Sherlock could say anything. “What in the hell were you thinking climbing up there?”

Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh, making no attempt to hide his disdain. He might be learning to be wary of John’s displeasure, but he certainly wasn’t at all cowed by Lestrade’s.

“Don’t you start,” he said irritably. “How many times do I have to say it? I was looking for _evidence_ , and I was _careful_.”

“Careful!” Lestrade echoed in disbelief. “Climbing up a bloody crane in your poncy coat without a word to anyone, yeah, that’s careful. What if you’d fallen off? I’ve already seen one body that’s fallen from a height today, I don’t need to see another and I sure as hell don’t want it to be yours.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and John had the impression that he wasn’t sure whether to be affronted or a little touched by Lestrade’s obvious concern. After a moment, though, affronted seemed to win out – but then, Lestrade had called his coat _poncy_.

“Do you want to know what happened or not?” Sherlock demanded in his haughtiest tone. “Because I can tell you, if you do, but I find I’m becoming less and less inclined to do so.”

John didn’t actually believe that for a second – Sherlock was hardly going to give up an opportunity to show off when it was right in front of him – and he suspected that Lestrade didn’t believe it either. However, Lestrade obviously did want to know what had happened, because he gave a frustrated sigh and gestured for Sherlock to go on.

“Okay, fine,” he said wearily, crossing his arms. “Let’s hear it.”

Sherlock’s expression of pique shifted instantly into satisfaction, and John was half tempted to smack him again on sheer principle. It was, he thought, probably a good thing that Lestrade was there, or he might just have given in and done it.

“It wasn’t a suicide,” Sherlock informed them smugly, before quickly going on, “But it wasn’t precisely a murder, either. I think the best you’ll be able to get him on is manslaughter.”

Lestrade’s expression now seemed to be one of curiosity warring with exasperation. “Get _who_?” he asked, with exaggerated patience.

“The crane operator, of course,” Sherlock said impatiently, as if this should have been entirely obvious. “That is where the victim fell from. The crane, not the building.”

John blinked. That should really have occurred to him already, what with Sherlock having climbed up the bloody thing, but for some reason it hadn’t. He supposed he’d been too concerned with getting Sherlock _off_ the crane to worry much about just what he was looking for up there.

Lestrade appeared to have had the same problem. “He fell off the crane?” he echoed, glancing up at it. “But then how did he – oh.” He caught himself, a look of sudden understanding crossing his face. “Right, of course; they turn.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “The operator turned the boom after it happened. I expect he was hoping that with it turned the other way no one would even look at the crane.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. His expression was intent now, focused. “Okay, back to the beginning, please. What do you think happened exactly?”

Sherlock gave him another haughty look. “What I have _deduced_ happened,” he said pointedly, “is that the crane operator intended to kill the victim when he called him into the site this morning. Probably on the pretext of a problem with the crane. I imagine he intended it to look like a tragic accident; a fall from the tower, most likely. But it didn’t go according to plan. He got Mills up to the cabin and attacked him, but Mills fought back and didn’t fall. But he couldn’t get away easily either, the crane operator was probably blocking the way down and there isn’t much room. So instead he panicked, and went out onto the boom. He was injured, possibly concussed, frightened. He had trouble keeping his balance. His attacker may even have been coming out after him to finish the job. He got out quite far, perhaps hoping that if he could buy some time someone else would arrive on the site and see what was going on. But they didn’t, and finally he took a bad step and fell.”

“Fell,” Lestrade echoed. “Not pushed?”

“Not directly,” Sherlock said. “There’s nothing to indicate a struggle out on the boom. He slipped and fell. But he wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been forced out there, so you should be able to get the crane operator on manslaughter. Possibly attempted murder too, if you can prove intent. I imagine he didn’t sign in this morning, not with what he had in mind. That’ll give you something.”

Lestrade was nodding slowly, looking as though he was turning that around in his mind. “So after Mills fell … what, the crane operator just turned the crane around and left?” he asked.

“He made an attempt to clean up,” Sherlock said. “The cabin reeks of turpentine, and he’s gone out onto the boom and tried to clean the blood off, too. I imagine he panicked at first. Having Mills fall from the boom wouldn’t have been what he had in mind. There’d be questions asked about that; what was he doing out there without a safety harness on? But when he saw where the body had landed, he realised he’d got lucky. The body was right beside the building. It could look like a suicide, or an accident. If he just turned the crane away, perhaps no one would even think to look at it. Why even consider that Mills might have fallen from the crane when his body was lying right beside a six storey building?”

“Well it nearly bloody worked,” Lestrade said grimly. “I hadn’t even thought of the crane. What made you think of it?”

“There was absolutely no evidence that Mills was even on that roof,” Sherlock told him. “But the question then became whether there was something else he could have fallen from. You can see the crane from the roof; it was easy enough to calculate that the boom would stretch over where Mills’ body is. The next thing to do was to check the crane for evidence.”

At that, he shot a pointed look first at John, then back at Lestrade, as if to reprimand them both for their reactions to him climbing the crane. John was impressed by Sherlock’s deductions, as he always was, but unimpressed by the look. Just because Sherlock had had a good reason for wanting to go up the crane didn’t mean he’d been any less mad or reckless in how he’d done it.

Lestrade didn’t appear to be impressed either, if the look he was giving Sherlock in return was any indication. After a moment he blew out a breath and glanced up at the crane.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, we’ll get a forensic team up there. And we’ll track down the crane operator. If we’re lucky, he’ll still be jittery enough that he’ll give himself away, or at least give us something.” He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “I don’t suppose you managed to deduce exactly _why_ he wanted to kill Mr Mills?”

“He thought Mills was having an affair with his girlfriend,” Sherlock told him unhesitatingly. “Possessive type. He was wrong, as it happens.”

“Christ.” Lestrade shook his head. “And you’re sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Sherlock said scornfully. “He didn’t do that good a job of cleaning up. There are still traces of blood in the cabin, and out on the boom. And even where there aren’t traces of blood it’s obvious that it’s been cleaned in certain spots. No grease and it smells very obviously of turpentine. He was in a hurry, though. Not as thorough as he should have been.”

“Bloody lucky for us that he wasn’t,” Lestrade said, and then snorted. “Pun not intended. But blood evidence we can definitely use. Right.” He ran a hand through his hair and glanced around, obviously making plans. “Forensics, then, first thing.”

“Make Anderson do it,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “He could use the exercise.”

Lestrade shot him a reprimanding look, but he was clearly pleased at the prospect of having his mystery solved. Still, he managed a suitably scolding tone as he said, “Don’t think this gets you off the hook for going up there without any safety precautions. It was a bloody mad thing to do. How in the hell do you think I’d explain my consultant falling off a crane on my crime scene?”

Sherlock was looking haughty again. “I wasn’t going to fall off,” he said scathingly, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

“Mills fell off,” Lestrade pointed out, his expression saying that he was once again entirely unimpressed by Sherlock’s answer. “You could have been bloody killed, Sherlock. Next time, tell me where you’re going and what you need to do. Is it that hard to just say something first?”

“Boring,” Sherlock muttered petulantly, and Lestrade gave a snort.

“I don’t care if it’s boring. You’ll do it or you’ll stay off my crime scenes.”

“Empty threat,” Sherlock told him. “You need me.”

“Maybe I do,” Lestrade said evenly. “But you’re a hell of a lot more use to me alive, so stop taking stupid bloody risks.” He glanced once at John, who had been watching the exchange in silence, then back at Sherlock. “Have you got anything else to tell me, or is it all boring now?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve told you what happened and who did it. I’m sure you can sort out the rest.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lestrade said drily. “In that case, I’ll get back to you if I’ve got any more questions. For now, I’ll let John get you home.”

That was accompanied by another glance at John, and this time Lestrade’s gaze was meaningful. Seeing it, John found himself suddenly remembering the smack he’d given Sherlock while they were up on the crane, and how he’d chosen to ignore the fact that Lestrade might actually be able to see them. They had been awfully high up, and Lestrade hadn’t given any indication up until now that he had seen, but that look made John wonder. Even Lestrade’s choice of words: _I’ll let John get you home_. The ‘get you home’ part could definitely be taken as having a ring of grim promise to it, if you were already thinking along those particular lines.

John glanced automatically at Sherlock, curious to see his reaction, and saw that Sherlock was staring at Lestrade with narrowed eyes. Lestrade gazed blandly back at him, saying nothing, and after a moment or two John saw a dull flush start to slowly creep across Sherlock’s cheeks.

Well, he thought ruefully, that probably answered that question.

There was nothing to be done about it now, though. If Lestrade had seen, then he had seen. And if he had, he obviously didn’t intend to confront them about it, at least not now. Better, John thought, just to do exactly what Lestrade had suggested and get Sherlock home, away from the potential source of embarrassment, before he could do or say anything that he’d regret.

And besides, he did have business to attend to with Sherlock when he did get him home, because John wasn’t letting Sherlock off the hook for his crane-climbing escapade either. They were due another discussion about reckless behaviour, although it was going to be the hairbrush doing most of the talking to Sherlock’s bottom.

John was well aware that he’d already spanked Sherlock once today, and that even though Sherlock wasn’t showing it, he had to be sore. But the fact was that Sherlock could have been killed just through sheer unthinking recklessness, and John certainly wasn’t about to let something like that pass unpunished. And as per their agreement, nor did he think Sherlock would honestly expect him to, whether Sherlock wanted to admit that or not. John had made it clear that taking unnecessary risks would earn Sherlock punishment, and this incident most definitely fell under that category. Sherlock might already be sore, but he was going to be even more so when John was finished with him, and he had no one to blame for it but himself.

“Good idea,” he said, before Sherlock could decide to protest. “Come on, Sherlock. I think you’re finished here, yeah?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, his cheeks still coloured a faint red. He glanced back at Lestrade, then back to John again, and for a moment he actually looked indecisive. John thought he could almost guess what Sherlock was thinking: did he want to go home and face the music – because by now he seemed to have worked out that there would indeed be music to face – or did he want to try to find a reason to stay even though there wasn’t much left to stay for?

Another quick glance at Lestrade seemed to decide him, and Sherlock drew himself up, his imperious look firmly back in place. “Yes, quite finished,” he said. “I think even Lestrade’s lot should be able to pull enough evidence off the crane for a conviction, provided Anderson doesn’t make a mess of it as usual.”

“Cheers for that,” Lestrade said. “And you were the one who said I should send him up there.”

“Only because I was being vindictive,” Sherlock told him frankly, and Lestrade snorted, smiling as if he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Yeah, I did work that part out,” he said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I just might do it.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, eyeing Lestrade searchingly, and then he seemed to relax a little, some of the haughty stiffness going out of his posture. Whatever he’d seen in Lestrade’s face, John thought, apparently it _had_ made him feel better.

“I’d keep him supervised if I were you,” Sherlock said, with the air of someone who was dispensing much needed advice.

“We’ll manage,” Lestrade said wryly. “Thanks, Sherlock. I appreciate the help. Not the crane climbing, mind you, but the help.”

Sherlock ignored that last, and waved the gratitude off expansively. “Tell me when you have something else that isn’t boring,” he said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer. Instead he nodded to John, saying, “Thanks for the help.” He glanced meaningfully at the crane and added in a dry tone, “Try to keep him from doing anything life-threatening on the way home, yeah?”

Sherlock appeared to ignore this too, but John didn’t miss the faintly wary glance that was thrown his way. It was gone in an instant, though, replaced by a look of studied disdain, and followed by Sherlock turning on his heel and heading for the exit without another word.

John exchanged a quick look of fellow feeling with Lestrade – who had after all been putting up with Sherlock’s attitude for much longer than John had – and then hurried after him.

He had no plans to do any scolding about the crane incident until they were safely back at home, and Sherlock seemed to be quite willing to go along with that. In fact, he seemed to be in a right strop and apparently didn’t intend to talk to John at all. He said not a word as he strode back to the site entrance and out onto the street, marching through practically with his nose in the air and once again not even sparing Donovan a glance when she glared at him. The silence continued during the walk up to the main road to find a cab, and through the entire cab ride home, during which Sherlock stared moodily out of the window and made it very clear that he was sulking.

John made no attempt to break said silence, at least not yet. Once they got home, then yes, they would certainly have to talk. But he had no desire to start an argument in public – another argument in public, he corrected himself ruefully – and if he was going to have to put his disciplinarian face on to get Sherlock to listen to him, then he definitely wanted privacy for that.

Not to mention, he wasn’t actually sure what exactly Sherlock was sulking about – if it was John having smacked him in semi-public, or Lestrade apparently having witnessed it, or the prospect of being punished when he got home, or some combination of all three. That last option seemed the most likely, but then this was Sherlock he was talking about, and he lived to be contrary to expectations.

The first one, John did intend to apologise for. He’d already acknowledged that he shouldn’t have done it, but he owed Sherlock an apology for losing his temper so badly, especially since he’d told Sherlock that he wouldn’t reprimand him like that in public. All right, they hadn’t exactly been in _public_ public – and if there actually had been other people around, John was quite sure he never would have done it – but still, it had been public enough. He’d apologise.

The second – well, John supposed he ought to apologise for the second as well, since that had stemmed directly from the first. He hadn’t actually intended for Lestrade to see him smack Sherlock, and in fact they’d been so high up that John was surprised Lestrade had been able to make out anything of what they were doing. But from Sherlock’s reaction, it seemed that Lestrade had, if not exactly seen, at least got some impression of what had happened. And while John hadn’t intended for Lestrade to be a witness, he had also chosen to ignore the possibility of it, again because he’d lost his temper.

Yes, he thought, he owed Sherlock an apology for that one too.

The third, however, he would _not_ be apologising for. The third was all on Sherlock. He had, yet again, done something mad and unnecessarily dangerous, and John was damn well going to teach him a lesson about it. And if it felt worse than it might have because Sherlock was sore already, then that was his own bloody fault.

Sherlock was still refusing to look at him, but his shoulders had stiffened almost as if he knew what John was thinking. And quite possibly he did, John thought wryly. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to somehow be able to deduce his train of thought by the pattern of his breathing, or the way he was shifting about on the seat, or something equally ridiculous sounding.

The silent, I’m-not-acknowledging-your-existence treatment lasted all the way home. When they did finally roll up back at Baker Street, Sherlock was out of the cab in moments, striding up to the front door all flapping coat and quick, offended movements, leaving John to pay the cab driver. By the time John got inside, Sherlock had already vanished up the stairs.

John was half expecting to have to go and hunt him out, and fully expecting that he would have to be the one who broached the subject, and then somehow balanced making his own apologies while still making it clear to Sherlock that he was due a punishment. As it was, though, when he came into the living room Sherlock was right there waiting for him, still with his coat on, standing with his feet braced apart and looking like he was quite ready for a confrontation.

“It’s not fair,” he said heatedly, before John could even get a word out, “that you’re going to punish me.”

Not a word about the public reprimand, or about what Lestrade might or might not have seen. Well, that was fine. John certainly still intended to offer his apologies for both, but for now at least, he’d let Sherlock choose which issue to tackle first. And if Sherlock’s choice was to complain about his impending punishment, then that meant it was time for John to put his disciplinarian face on.

“Why isn’t it fair?” he asked evenly, crossing his arms.

“Because it was for a case,” Sherlock fired back immediately. “And I was right!”

“Most of the dangerous things you do are for cases,” John replied. “That’s the whole problem; when it’s for a case, you stop thinking about what is and isn’t dangerous. It was an unnecessary risk, Sherlock, and you know it.”

“I was careful!” Sherlock insisted. “I was careful, I wasn’t going to fall, and I was _right_.”

“I know you were right,” John told him, since Sherlock seemed to be emphasising that point. “And it was bloody clever, to realise that he fell off the crane and not the building. No one else had even thought of it, and if you hadn’t, they might never have known and that bloke might have got away with it. It was amazing. But that’s not what we’re talking about here, Sherlock. I understand that you needed to go up there to look for evidence, and that’s fine. But you didn’t need to go up there by yourself and without telling anyone.”

Sherlock looked torn, as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold onto his sulk and keep arguing or preen under the praise. He finally seemed to settle for something in between, saying in a tone that was still sullen but less openly aggressive, “I was _being careful_.”

John shook his head, his arms still firmly crossed. “No, you weren’t,” he said. “Careful would have been telling Lestrade – or at least me – what you needed to do and using the proper safety gear to do it. You didn’t just climb up there and have a poke around in the cab, Sherlock. That would have been one thing. But you went out on the boom of that bloody thing. One bad step and you could have been killed. It was a totally unnecessary risk, and we’ve agreed that you get punished for taking unnecessary risks.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then added, “But if you think you’ve got a convincing argument as to why it wasn’t one, then go right ahead.”

Sherlock had shifted a little at the reference to their having agreed, something John knew he took seriously. Nevertheless, he gamely took John up on his offer. “Forensic evidence at a scene is ephemeral,” he said at once. “It’s vulnerable to the elements, to tampering, to time. It’s important to find it as quickly as possible and that was what I did.”

All true, John thought, and yet under the circumstances he remained thoroughly unconvinced. “Sherlock,” he said, “if you’d told Lestrade what you suspected, do you honestly think that he wouldn’t have listened to you?”

The very direct question made Sherlock shift his feet again uncomfortably. He looked at John, then looked away, and after a few moments of silence he reluctantly admitted, “No.”

“No,” John agreed. “Of course he’d have listened. He asked you there to get your opinion, for God’s sake. If you’d told him what you were thinking, he could have cordoned off the crane so no one could go up there and tamper with anything, and then you could have done it safely. There were people from the site around who could have got us the gear. Yes, you might have had to wait half an hour, but so long as no one else went up there, would half an hour have really made any difference?”

“Half an hour is astoundingly optimistic,” Sherlock told him, adding with obvious distaste, “And they’d have insisted on sending someone up with us.”

“And you could have told them to stay out of your way,” John replied firmly. “And if it had been an hour, so what? It wasn’t raining. If the crane was kept off limits until you got up there, the evidence would still have been there waiting for you. You could have done it safely, Sherlock. But instead you didn’t say a word to anyone, just hared off and went by yourself, no safety precautions, no one to help, nothing. You did something bloody dangerous when there was absolutely no need for it. We’ve agreed that you get punished for taking unnecessary risks. We’ve also agreed that what is and isn’t an unnecessary risk is my call, not yours, because too often you can’t tell the difference.” He paused again for emphasis, giving Sherlock a very level look. “So tell me again why it’s not fair that I’m going to punish you.”

Apparently, Sherlock couldn’t, at least not honestly. Or at least, John inferred that he couldn’t from the fact that this time Sherlock didn’t even bother to try, but instead scowled down at the floor and muttered in a sullen tone, “We also agreed not in public.”

Okay, John thought. It was time for his apology, then. While he was reasonably certain that Sherlock was only bringing the public factor up now because he didn’t have a suitable answer for why his impending punishment wasn’t fair – and so was trying instead to both change the subject and put John on the defensive – it was still a fair complaint, and John wasn’t about to shy away from offering an apology that he knew he owed.

“I know we did,” he said. “And I shouldn’t have done that. I lost my temper. And I can’t even say that I didn’t think, because I did, and I was just too pissed off to let that stop me. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock actually blinked, looking, for a moment, quite taken aback by this. “You’re apologising,” he said slowly.

John nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

“Why?”

It was John’s turn to blink. As far as he could tell, Sherlock’s question wasn’t sarcasm but genuine curiosity. There was no mockery or derision in his face that John could see; Sherlock’s head was cocked slightly to the side and he was eyeing John searchingly, as if he was some strange puzzle that Sherlock didn’t quite understand.

Well, if he genuinely didn’t understand, then John would just have to spell it out for him, even if doing so got Sherlock’s back up.

“I’m apologising because I owe you an apology,” he told Sherlock honestly. “Because I did something that I shouldn’t have done, and I regret doing it.”

Rather than becoming irritated at John trying to explain, though, Sherlock just continued to scrutinise him. “You were angry,” he said. “Because I frightened you.”

At first John thought that was a deduction, albeit a rather obvious one for Sherlock to make, since John had openly admitted as much to him at the time. Something in Sherlock’s tone made him think again, though, and after a moment he realised that oddly enough, it actually sounded more like a justification. Almost as if, John thought bemusedly, having brought up the incident in the first place, Sherlock was now trying to excuse John’s behaviour to John himself.

“Yeah,” he agreed, somewhat cautiously. “I was. But that’s no excuse. I should still be able to control my temper, even when I’m angry.”

“But I frightened you,” Sherlock said again, and now he sounded a bit wary too, the words not quite a question.

Not quite, John thought, but almost. Almost as if Sherlock wanted confirmation.

He suddenly remembered their exchange at the top of the crane, and remembered how Sherlock had softened, despite his indignation, when John had said he’d been terrified that Sherlock would fall off. It hadn’t been sympathy for John’s fear that had mollified him, John was sure. It had been the reminder that John cared about him, in the form of being afraid for his safety.

Was that what he wanted confirmation of? John was asking himself the question even as his instincts responded with the automatic desire to offer reassurance, telling him firmly to _remind him again_.

“Yes, you did,” he said, more than happy to confirm that for Sherlock, since it was entirely bloody true. “You scared the bloody hell out of me. But,” he added firmly, “it’s still no excuse for losing my temper that badly. We agreed not in public, and you trusted me to stick to that, and I didn’t. And I’m sorry, Sherlock. I apologise.”

He wasn’t actually sure if his confirmation had been reassuring or not. Sherlock was looking oddly nonplussed again, as if he found the whole thing somehow disconcerting, and wasn’t entirely sure now of how he should respond. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to hesitate and glanced away instead. There was a pause in which he quite studiously avoided John’s eyes, but finally – and rather to John’s surprise – he offered a muttered, “It’s all right.”

John eyed him somewhat sceptically in return. The words were one thing, and Sherlock did seem to have been curiously disarmed by his apology, but that hadn’t exactly sounded enthusiastic. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and while his tone hadn’t changed, there was no hesitation in his voice this time. He seemed to gather himself, and turned back to meet John’s eyes, saying with a wry little twist of his lips, “You were right, what you said.” When John raised an eyebrow in question, he elaborated. “We weren’t really in public. And if there had been anyone else there, you wouldn’t have done it.”

John had been thinking much the same thing himself earlier, and he was certainly grateful that Sherlock had that much faith in him, but he couldn’t help pointing out the inconvenient fact. “Lestrade was there,” he said, grimacing. “He saw it, didn’t he? I’m sorry about that, too, by the way.”

But Sherlock was shaking his head. “He didn’t actually see it,” he said. “We were too high up for that. He got the impression of it, but he couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen.” He indulged in a grimace of his own to match John’s. “But he already had his … suspicions.”

John felt his eyebrows go up. “‘His suspicions’? So does he know or doesn’t he?”

“He doesn’t know,” Sherlock said, only to add before John had time to feel relieved, “Not exactly. But he has an idea. He’s observed our behaviour, yours and mine, and he’s formed a theory based on his observations.” That wry little twist had appeared at his mouth again. “He’s not actually an idiot all the time.”

“Well, no,” John said. “But look, Sherlock – if what I did meant that he’s observed more, and now he has more of an idea about – well, about our arrangement – then I’m sincerely sorry. I knew he was there, and I should have been able to keep my temper under control. Especially when I’m being …” He hesitated for a moment, considering how to word it, and finally settled on, “… when I’m in that role. Even when I’m angry, even when I’ve had a hard day.” He gave a rueful little smile, adding, “Even when I’ve had a hard week. It won’t happen again,” he finished, firmly and with conviction.

Sherlock gave another uncomfortable little shift at the mention of the hard week, some expression that John couldn’t quite decipher flickering across his face. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, though, and when John finished, Sherlock straightened up, cleared his throat and gave him a solemn, almost formal nod.

“Apology accepted,” he said, in a tone to match the nod. “And I know it won’t happen again. You’re nothing if not a man of your word, John.” He paused minutely, and then added, “Perhaps we ought to put both of our lapses of judgement today down to a bad week, and just say that we’ve both learned our lessons.”

The words were spoken so smoothly that it actually took John a moment to realise that what Sherlock had just said, effectively, was that John ought to let him off. And just to back it up, he was regarding John with a perfectly innocent, expectant expression, as if he knew that his request was entirely reasonable and now he was just waiting for John to agree so that they could go on with their day.

John managed – just – not to roll his eyes, although it was a near thing. Trust Sherlock to slide right back into trying to avoid his punishment without even missing a beat.

But since Sherlock had brought them back around to that, then that probably meant it was time to get on with it. John’s apology seemed to have resolved the ‘in public’ issue, at least as far as John could tell, and he was certainly grateful that Sherlock had been willing to accept it, and to trust John’s entirely sincere assurance that it wouldn’t happen again. Hopefully, John thought, Sherlock had been able to read that sincerity from him, and understood that John had meant every word and that he fully intended to make sure that it _didn’t_ happen again. Sherlock was trusting him to hold to the agreements they had made, and John didn’t take that lightly any more than Sherlock did. He was going to honour that trust, and he wasn’t going to slip up like that again, no matter how much his temper might be suffering.

However, none of that meant that Sherlock was getting out of the punishment that he had coming to him, which was, after all, quite well deserved indeed.

And so John made sure that his disciplinarian face was firmly in place – because that _was_ his role right now, whether Sherlock liked it or not – and met Sherlock’s expectant gaze with a calm, steady expression.

“Nice try,” he said. “But my lapse of judgement didn’t put anyone in unnecessary mortal danger. Yours did. And we’ve agreed that taking unnecessary risks earns you punishment, haven’t we?”

Sherlock’s hopeful look morphed into an immediate scowl at the all too pointed question. He huffed and glared down at his shoes in an obvious resurgence of bad temper, but after a moment or two he nevertheless gave the required answer, muttering a sullen sounding, “Yes.”

“Yes, we have,” John said, ignoring the renewed sulk. “And so I’m afraid that you have an appointment with the hairbrush.” He raised a hand and pointed towards Sherlock’s bedroom, trying to keep his expression suitably firm and authoritative. “To your room, please, and we’ll get this over with.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened even further at the mention of the hairbrush, and for a moment John thought he was going to have another rebellion on his hands, as Sherlock looked him up and down with a heavy frown that spoke ominously of brewing mutiny. But just as John was bracing himself for the coming argument, Sherlock – in typically mercurial fashion – apparently thought better of it. His scowl abruptly downgraded into an unhappy pout, and then he turned without a word, trudging off in the direction of his bedroom with a distinctly martyred air.

Relieved that the battle seemed to have been averted, John followed him, only to find himself pinned – metaphorically speaking, at least – the moment he entered Sherlock’s bedroom, by a pair of wide, beseeching grey eyes and an expression of truly winsome appeal. Sherlock still hadn’t taken his coat off, and he had struck a fretful pose right at the foot of his bed, fidgeting with carefully calculated anxiety and giving John his very best imploring look.

John was not, by any means, immune to that look, even when he knew damn well that Sherlock was just using it as a tactic. He was, however, becoming quite proficient at _pretending_ that he was immune to it.

“Corner time,” he said, pointing towards the familiar corner and not even acknowledging the silent petition for mercy. “Fifteen minutes. You can leave your coat on if you like, but I’m still going to expect you to keep still, so if you think you’re going to get too hot in it then take it off.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted subtly to wounded, as if John’s ignoring of his impressively pleading look was just heaping cruelty upon cruelty. Determined to keep his authoritative stance, John ignored that too, and concentrated instead on simply radiating stern, resolute expectance. He’d given his instructions, and now Sherlock would obey them if he knew what was good for him. Sherlock knew perfectly well that disobedience when he was being punished would earn him extra; if he wanted to go that route, then that was up to him. Whatever he chose, John could – and would – handle him, and whatever he chose it still wasn’t going to buy him any last minute reprieves.

Sherlock seemed to realise this, because after a moment or two of searching John’s face he heaved a crestfallen sigh, his shoulders slumping in apparent defeat. Managing, somehow, to look even more tragic than he already had, he shrugged out of his coat and sidled past John to hang it up on the back of the door, before dragging his feet reluctantly back over to the indicated corner.

He glumly turned to face into it, shuffled himself back and forth for a moment or two and then dutifully stilled and straightened, his hands sliding behind him to clasp lightly in the small of his back. Another deep, forlorn sounding sigh drifted back to John, and Sherlock let his head hang just a little, as if to make sure there was no doubt about his state of woe.

Despite knowing that Sherlock was putting on an entirely calculated show, John felt an unwilling pang of sympathy, and had to very deliberately call up the memory of just how small Sherlock had looked, walking out along the boom of that crane, in order to squash it. Sherlock had been a tiny silhouette against the thick metal lattice, a little coat-clad figure high in the air, with very little _but_ air between him and the unforgiving ground, and John remembered all too clearly thinking that if Sherlock fell from that height there would be absolutely nothing that he could do …

The remembered fear worked wonders. John cast a grim look at Sherlock’s woefully turned back and thought that Sherlock was welcome to look as forlorn and woeful as he liked, but he was going to be looking a good deal more genuinely woeful once John was finished with him. There would _not_ be any more impulsive climbing of cranes, not if John had anything to say about it.

As if Sherlock had sensed John’s forbidding turn of mood – which, knowing him, he quite possibly had – he shuffled uncomfortably and stood up a little straighter, pulling his shoulders back as if he’d just been scolded about his posture. John pointed another stern look at the back of his head, repeated, “Fifteen minutes,” in a suitably firm and authoritative tone, and went to get the hairbrush.

He sat down on the bed with it, making sure to position himself where he could keep a careful eye on Sherlock. Much like earlier that day – and bloody hell, it was hard to believe that they’d done this exact same thing only a few hours ago – Sherlock seemed more inclined to be tragic than defiant, but John had learned that the possibility of rebellion during corner time wasn’t something that was particularly easy to predict. Sherlock’s moods could shift with amazing speed, and tragedy and woe could all too easily become stroppiness and tantrums if Sherlock happened to swing the right way.

John could certainly deal with the tantrums, and it wouldn’t gain Sherlock anything except more punishment, at which point he generally swung straight back to woe again. Still, John would much prefer to avoid having to deal with it in the first place. Staying vigilant while Sherlock was in the corner, so as to nip any potential misbehaviour in the bud before it went too far, seemed like an entirely reasonable precaution to take.

But again, just like earlier, Sherlock had apparently decided to opt for unhappy compliance rather than kicking up a fuss. He barely twitched during his fifteen minutes of corner time, standing obediently in place with his face turned to the wall and his hands behind his back, and he remained dutifully silent apart from a few soft, sorrowful sounding sighs, which John thought were most likely due to boredom getting the better of him. But all in all he was remarkably well-behaved, and by the time the fifteen minutes were up John was actually starting to become quite hopeful indeed that this punishment would go as smoothly as the last one had. Just a brief interval of unpleasantness, he thought, and over with as quickly as he could reasonably manage. Then he could give Sherlock a good long cuddle and they could put it all behind them.

Really, he supposed he should have known he was being far too optimistic.

 


	3. Revelations Per Minute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say three chapters? Let’s just pretend I said four.
> 
> Still no spanking in this one, but finally some understanding!

 

“Time’s up,” John said, once they had passed the fifteen minute mark. “Come here, please.”

Sherlock gave another mournful sigh, but he did as he was told, stepping back from the wall and turning in place. His eyes went first to John’s face, and then skipped immediately down to the hairbrush on the bed beside him, his forehead creasing in consternation at the sight of it. His compliance held for exactly three steps in John’s direction before he stopped, gazing at John with wide, pleading eyes.

“Do you have to use that?” he asked. Those imploring eyes flicked down towards the hairbrush and then, hopefully, back up again.

“Yes,” John replied shortly. “Come here.” He indicated the space beside him with a sternly pointed finger.

Sherlock took another step towards him, then hesitated again. “Why can’t you use something else?”

Despite not intending to be drawn into an argument, John found himself pointedly raising an eyebrow in response. “Would you prefer the cane?” he asked evenly.

“No!” Sherlock said at once, his eyes widening in horror. He didn’t back away, but one hand crept behind him, as if to instinctively comfort his bottom at the very thought of it.

“Didn’t think so,” John said. “The hairbrush it is, then.” He pointed once again to the spot on the floor directly beside him. “Sherlock, come here.”

The repeated command got him another step forwards before Sherlock began to whine again. “But it’s not fair,” he complained. His expression was sliding rapidly back towards a sullen pout, the artful pleading eclipsed by brewing temper.

In return, John fixed him with a deliberately severe look. “We’ve already had this conversation,” he said. “And I explained to you exactly why it is fair, and exactly why you’re going to be punished. You put yourself in unnecessary danger, and we’ve agreed that behaviour like that earns you punishment. It is fair, and you know it. Now _come here_.”

He made his tone very stern on that last, intending to put a stop to the debate right then and there, but rather than being cowed Sherlock only seemed to scowl harder. He crossed his arms and glared, looking very much as though he’d like to start stamping his feet with frustration. “But it was for a case and I was right!”

He seemed to have slipped right back into the same arguments that John had already refuted, and much to John’s dismay, right back towards incipient tantrum territory, too. John thought he could actually understand why – Sherlock’s brewing tantrum had only been forestalled in the first place because he’d decided to change tactics, and try to appeal for a reprieve rather than throwing a fit. Those tactics hadn’t worked, however, and as a result Sherlock was getting frustrated all over again, and see-sawing straight back towards the tantrum.

A tantrum, John realised, that he needed to nip in the bud right now if he didn’t want this situation to escalate any further. With that goal firmly in mind, he didn’t think about what he was going to do as much as act on instinct. Keeping his expression very stern – the full Captain Watson face, now – he got to his feet so as to face Sherlock on a more even footing, and stared him down with the full force of the authority figure that he, and Sherlock, had made him into.

“You’re going to stop arguing right now,” he said, and while his tone wasn’t truly angry, it was hard and it fairly _demanded_ obedience. “You know exactly why you’re going to be punished, and you know you deserve it. You also know that arguing and backtalk while you’re being punished only earns you more punishment. I don’t want that, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either. So you are going to cooperate, and we are going to get this over with without it turning into a circus. Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?”

Incredibly, Sherlock’s scowl seemed to become even more intense as John spoke, and when John had finished speaking, that laser intensity glare continued to hold for one … two … three long seconds. Then – just as John was beginning to resign himself to a real battle royal, and the probable end result of him having to be much, much harder on Sherlock than he’d originally intended to be – Sherlock’s angry expression abruptly crumpled in on itself, folding back into a sad, sullen pout.

“But I’m already sore!” he whined, and it really was a whine this time, more suited to a fractious teenager than a man Sherlock’s age.

John breathed a silent sigh of relief that the threatened tantrum had been downgraded yet again, but he didn’t allow even a hint of it to show on his face. Instead, he kept his expression as immovably stern as he could make it.

“And whose fault is that?” he asked, his tone making it clear that the question was rhetorical. “If you hadn’t misbehaved, then you wouldn’t be sore, would you?”

“But you already spanked me once today!” Sherlock continued his litany of complaint as if John hadn’t even spoken. “And yesterday, too! I don’t want another one!”

That made John hesitate for a moment, because _that_ – that could almost have been a refusal, and if it was, then John needed to know before things went any further. He eyed Sherlock carefully, trying hard to read his face and his body language, and thinking not for the first time that at times like this it would be damn convenient to have at least some of Sherlock’s powers of observation.

Of course he could have just asked, but he was wary about doing that without having a better idea of what the answer was likely to be. He already knew that Sherlock could tend to become agitated and uneasy if it looked like John was second guessing himself – if it looked like John might possibly not do what they’d agreed that he _would_ do – and Sherlock was more than agitated enough already as it was. John would ask if he had to, but if Sherlock’s protest actually wasn’t a refusal, asking him point blank if it was might well set off the tantrum that John was trying very hard to avoid.

There was a beat as he continued to eyeball Sherlock, and then John almost sighed in relief as he realised that no, in fact, he didn’t have to ask. He might not have Sherlock’s powers of deduction, but he knew Sherlock well enough by now to be able to read at least some things from him. That had been a complaint – a very forlorn, heartfelt complaint – but that was all it had been. Sherlock was unhappy about the prospect of being disciplined, there was no question about that, but his protests were token ones, with no real expectation – or desire – that John would actually give in to them.

And given that, thank God John hadn’t actually asked him point blank, because with his emotions already so fraught, Sherlock probably wouldn’t have been happy at all.

It seemed John had done enough damage just by hesitating, though. Sherlock’s expression had darkened again, but this time John could see real distress in his face as well as frustration. Whatever he had inferred from John’s moment of indecision, he didn’t appear to like it one bit.

Hoping he’d be able to recover the ground he’d lost before he really did have a tantrum on his hands, John hastily doubled down on the sternness, trying to make it clear with both tone and expression that _his_ was going to be the last word on the matter.

“You got both of those spankings because you misbehaved,” he said, the firm words accompanied by a hard, implacable stare. “I’ve told you this before, Sherlock – every time you misbehave, you’re going to be punished. If you didn’t want the spanking you got yesterday, then you should have done as you were told and rested. If you didn’t want the one you got today, then you should have worn gloves like you know you’re supposed to, and you should have thought twice about doing an experiment that involved harming yourself. And if you didn’t want the one you’re about to get now, then you should have thought about what you were doing before you needlessly risked your safety. You were the one who chose to misbehave again when you were still sore from your last punishment. So if this one hurts more, then you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

Sherlock’s expression had wavered wildly as John spoke, as if he was now so worked up that he could no longer even settle on what exactly he was feeling. It didn’t bode well at all for John’s fading hopes of averting a tantrum, and he was once again starting to brace himself for what surely this time had to be the oncoming storm, when Sherlock, once again, changed the game.

“But I didn’t know there was going to be a case today!” Sherlock burst out, the instant John finished his lecture. “I didn’t know I was going to get in actual _trouble_!”

John was already opening his mouth to reply to that, fully intending to keep right on scolding and shutting down Sherlock’s protests until Sherlock capitulated and did as he was told, when what Sherlock had said – as opposed to just the impassioned delivery – actually caught up with him.

_Wait_ , he thought, the reprimanding words he’d been ready to deliver suddenly frozen on the tip of his tongue. _Wait, what_?

He stared at Sherlock, who was staring right back at him with eyes wide in alarm and a look of sudden, appalled consternation on his face. That look said it all, John thought; it was entirely obvious, even to someone who was not a deductive genius, that Sherlock had _not_ meant to say that.

“Actual trouble,” John echoed slowly, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face. “Actual trouble as opposed to what?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He appeared almost panicked, his eyes fixed on John in return as if he didn’t dare to look away.

“Sherlock,” John said, and without even intending it his tone had dropped low, becoming deathly quiet and very, very serious. “What did you mean by that?”

There was still no answer from Sherlock, but it didn’t matter; the pieces were starting to fall into place for John all on their own. Sherlock might call him an idiot, but John _was_ capable of putting two and two together and getting four, and right now he was getting a version of four that was rather neatly confirming some of his earlier suspicions about the chaotic week they’d just had.

“Actual trouble,” he repeated. “The thing at the crime scene was actual trouble. So what’s the other kind, Sherlock?” When Sherlock still didn’t reply, John added, “We’re not talking about grades of severity here, are we?” They weren’t, he was bloody well sure of it. “You’re getting the hairbrush for climbing the crane just like you did for that experiment earlier.”

Sherlock remained silent, but his increasing dismay was written all over his face. It wasn’t often that John saw him so obviously wrong-footed, or so apparently flustered by being wrong-footed. Part of him almost felt bad for pushing the issue when Sherlock was so clearly distressed by it, but if this was what he thought it was, then he simply couldn’t afford to leave it alone, no matter how unhappy Sherlock might be about it coming to light. It might not be an easy conversation, but one way or the other, John needed to know.

And with that in mind, it was probably best that he just cut right to the heart of the matter and put his suspicions into words.

“We’re talking about intent,” he said bluntly. “Aren’t we, Sherlock? You climbed up the crane without even thinking. It didn’t even occur to you that you’d be in trouble for it until afterwards. You didn’t _mean_ to get in trouble. That’s the difference we’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

The very direct questions still didn’t net him a verbal answer, but Sherlock blinked at him in chagrin and gave another audible gulp. John had the feeling that it was taking rather a lot of effort on Sherlock’s part not to back away from him; he looked very much like he wanted to and only sheer willpower was holding him in place.

And while Sherlock might not have answered him out loud, John was pretty sure he did have his answer. The look on Sherlock’s face, along with the notable lack of any kind of denial, was more than telling.

“That’s a yes, then, isn’t it?” he asked, just to confirm, and was met with another unhappy blink, Sherlock visibly squirming under John’s questioning gaze. That _was_ a yes, then. Bloody hell.

Okay, he thought. Okay. It was vital that he keep his cool, here. As frustrating and confusing as this might be, he couldn’t afford to lose his temper. For one thing, he’d just had to make several apologies for losing his temper when he shouldn’t have, and along with those apologies he’d made promises to himself about staying in better control. And for another, Sherlock had been teetering right on the edge of a tantrum when he’d let those revealing words slip, and with the added distress of having given himself away, it probably wouldn’t take much at all to push him straight back in that direction. John would still much prefer not to add a Sherlock tantrum into the mix, especially when the situation was quite fraught enough already.

Okay. Above all, no matter what else he did, he needed to keep his temper in check. He had more questions to ask and he would ask them, but he would have to do it carefully and _calmly_ , and so hopefully get the answers he needed without tipping Sherlock over into a fit.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then released it just as slowly, concentrating on steadying himself and trying to think through what he was going to say before he spoke again. Sherlock – who still hadn’t said a word since he’d blurted out his accidental confession – watched him with wary, worried eyes, and John returned the look with one that was a combination of stern reproach and genuine puzzlement.

“I’d wondered,” he said, keeping his tone quiet and consciously even. “I’d wondered what the hell was going on this week. I’d even thought some of it might be deliberate, might be you testing the boundaries again. It didn’t seem quite right, but …”

His voice trailed off, and he blew out another slow breath. If he was honest, it still didn’t seem quite right, which was why he fully intended to keep asking questions until he got to the bottom of it – pun not intended, he thought grimly.

“Why, Sherlock?” he asked, deciding that he might as well just be straightforward about it. “What were you trying to do? Were you testing me?”

“No.”

Sherlock had been so determinedly silent up until now that John was almost surprised that he’d actually got an answer. The single word was spoken in a low, tense voice, accompanied by an expression that was suddenly, openly pleading. And it wasn’t the dramatically imploring ‘please don’t spank me’ look that John was getting so good at pretending to be immune to, either. This was real pleading, Sherlock silently but obviously begging him to drop the subject.

John felt a sharp pang of sympathy, because whatever was behind all this, it was clear that Sherlock was genuinely distressed by it. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact that John needed to know what was going on, because this had to be dealt with sooner rather than later, and by sooner he meant right bloody now before it got any worse.

“No,” he echoed. “What, then? If you’ve been doing it deliberately then you must have had a reason for it.”

He paused expectantly, but Sherlock had apparently taken refuge in silence again, still beseeching John with his eyes. Realising that he wasn’t going to get an answer, John determinedly went on trying to elicit one.

“I know I was hard on you about the thing with the bus,” he said, giving voice to another of his theories. “Were you feeling insecure about it?”

John wasn’t usually that blunt about pointing out Sherlock’s insecurities, even when he witnessed them in action, but he was hoping that just being blunt about it might at least get him a reply. It was a partial success; Sherlock blinked in surprise at the forthright question but hastily shook his head, his pleading expression shifting half into awkwardness, even as his gaze slid uncomfortably away from John’s.

“No,” he repeated tightly. He seemed to hesitate, and for a moment John thought he was going to say something more. But then he pressed his lips together stubbornly, locked his eyes with John’s once again, and resumed his silent appeal.

John breathed out hard through his nose and firmly reminded himself to be patient. “What, then?” he asked again. “I don’t believe you’ve been doing it for no reason. And I don’t believe you actually want me to punish you.”

He didn’t, either; not with all the bloody fuss Sherlock made about it every time it happened, and John was quite sure that fuss hadn’t been feigned.

Well, he was pretty damn sure, at least. Although this was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about.

He hesitated, eyeing Sherlock with a sudden hint of doubt. “You don’t, do you?”

“No!”

That had been considerably more vehement, and as far as John could tell, it had also been sincere. Okay, then. He hadn’t really thought that Sherlock actually wanted to be punished, not given the way he carried on about it when it happened.

“Okay,” he said, trying to strike a balance between placatory – because he still didn’t want a tantrum – and firm, because he still _did_ want answers. “So what is it, then? Come on, Sherlock, talk to me. You don’t want me to punish you but you’ve been deliberately getting yourself punished. Why?”

Because there had to be a reason for that, there just bloody had to be. Sherlock had been doing it, or at least some of it, on purpose; he might not have openly admitted it but he’d made no attempt to deny it, and the look on his face had been damn near as good as a confession. But _what_ purpose? If he was telling the truth – and John thought that he was – then he hadn’t been testing John, and he hadn’t been feeling insecure after the bus thing, and it wasn’t that he _wanted_ to be punished. But then, what could he possibly be getting out of deliberately earning himself punishments? What hadn’t John thought of that would, to Sherlock, be worth all the discomfort?

And then, suddenly, John had it.

It was a true lightbulb moment, as if the puzzle pieces he’d been worrying at with his mind had all abruptly slotted together into a coherent whole, and furthermore a coherent whole that was _so bloody obvious_ that John had absolutely no idea why it had taken him so long to work it out. Because it was, it was so bloody obvious, and Christ on a fucking bike why hadn’t he seen it?

He stared at Sherlock, Sherlock who had very obviously deduced John’s moment of revelation and was now watching him with what appeared to be mingled horror and fascination. Apparently, even while Sherlock was clearly feeling wretched, watching John have an epiphany was still an interesting distraction.

“You don’t want to be punished,” John said, and the words seemed to drop like little explosions into the silence that had fallen between them. John’s heart twisted when Sherlock actually winced, but he forced himself to go on, because this _had_ to be resolved.

“You want what comes afterwards. Don’t you? You’ve been getting yourself punished just so that you can have a cuddle.”

And now that he was saying it, now that he was thinking it, he simply could not understand how he’d been so oblivious to it. How in the hell had he not seen it? He knew how much Sherlock enjoyed those cuddles; Sherlock might have started out wary and unsure about being cuddled but he made no bones about it now, he would snuggle into John with grateful fervour and bloody cling to him. For God’s sake, he’d relax enough to sleep in John’s arms afterwards, pressed up against him and holding on to him for comfort. He liked the closeness, the care, the security, he liked just being _held_.

And John knew all of this, had gone through all of this in his head time after time, so why in God’s name had this possibility not even occurred to him until now?

Sherlock was still staring back at him, his expression tense and miserable, and even as John watched his shoulders hunched almost as if he was expecting a blow. The sheer uncharacteristic defensiveness of it went straight to John’s heart, and he hardly needed to ask for a final confirmation when Sherlock was looking at him like that, but this was _Sherlock_ and John knew that he had to be sure.

“Sherlock,” he said, as gently as he could. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

He saw Sherlock’s throat work as he swallowed hard, once and then again. There was a pause that seemed painfully long, and then Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, only for the words, as far as John could tell, to quite literally get stuck. He could actually see Sherlock trying to speak and coming up short, as if he simply couldn’t manage to make his voice cooperate. Finally – giving up – he answered instead with a single, jerky nod.

And there it was, John thought. He was right, then. He’d already known he was, but that was actual confirmation of it, from Sherlock himself. Oh, Christ.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, echoing himself out loud, because right then he simply couldn’t think of anything else to say.

His tone had been weary more than anything else, but it seemed to be the final straw for an already distressed Sherlock. His face contorted, and he looked suddenly as if he was about to cry. John realised with growing alarm that he also looked as if he was about to flee, his body tensing as he poised himself to turn on his heel and make a run for it.

_He doesn’t want me to see_ , John understood at once, aching sympathy stabbing into him like a knife. _He is going to cry and he doesn’t want me to see_ –

Instinct kicked in then, sheer protective instinct and the desperate desire to offer comfort, and John moved before Sherlock could, the lack of space between them allowing him to lunge forward and grab hold of Sherlock before he could even really begin to turn. He pulled Sherlock into a hard, tight hug, wrapping both arms around his lean frame and holding on with determined strength, making it very clear to Sherlock that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Sherlock being Sherlock, of course he tried anyway. He squirmed in John’s embrace, his hands coming up to push roughly at John’s shoulders as he tried to wriggle free. John was having none of it.

“No you don’t,” he said, quietly but firmly, his arms still locked around Sherlock’s bony ribcage. “No you don’t, Sherlock. You’re not running away from me. It’s all going to be fine. We’re going to fix it.”

Sherlock kept shoving at him, didn’t seem to hear him – or was just refusing to listen to him – and John deliberately made his tone a bit sterner, hoping that it would penetrate Sherlock’s distress. “Sherlock, stop it. You’re okay. We’re okay. But I’m not going to let you run, not now.”

He wasn’t. He was determined on that point. On some deep level he knew that if he let Sherlock run away from this, even temporarily, it was only going to make things worse. Sherlock would run and he would regain his composure, and he would immediately start trying to pretend that it hadn’t happened, he would start trying to find reasons and excuses and escape routes that didn’t involve him having to confront any of it, and he would throw up endless roadblocks to even talking about it again.

And even if John ultimately wouldn’t let it go – which he wouldn’t – he would still have to push and shove and fight and break through Sherlock’s barriers again just to get them back to where they were right now. And in the meantime, who knew how much damage would be done both to Sherlock and to Sherlock’s trust in him.

No, they were going to do this now, right now, no delays and no running. John could fix this, he _would_ fix this, but in order to do that he needed Sherlock here, and so he was not going to let Sherlock run away from him.

Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to have got the message, because he was still vainly trying to worm his way free from John’s determined embrace. Although, John realised, it was probably very telling that Sherlock’s efforts consisted entirely of squirming around, as opposed to truly fighting him. If Sherlock was putting up a genuine fight, John would be having to expend a hell of a lot more effort to keep hold of him, as well as probably trying to fend off various well-placed fists and elbows. As it was, all he was really doing was hanging on and not allowing Sherlock to wriggle away.

He’d had about enough of the wriggling, though, and if Sherlock wasn’t going to listen to spoken reassurances then John would simply have to be more emphatic. He took a moment to make sure that he had a good hold on Sherlock with his right hand, and then freed his left just long enough to plant a sharp smack across Sherlock’s bottom.

“Stop it!” he said, sharpening his tone to match. “You’re not going anywhere, so stop it and calm down!”

John didn’t know if it was the smack, the scolding or the combination of the two, but whatever it was apparently did the trick. Sherlock’s struggles stopped as abruptly as if he’d just been turned off at the wall, and for a moment he seemed to be almost frozen in place, still half twisted around where he’d been straining against John’s hold on him.

And then – just as suddenly as he’d stopped struggling – all the fight simply went of him. He gave a low, tearful sounding whine, sucked in a sharp breath that could very easily have been a sob, and folded into John’s waiting arms like a puppet with its strings cut. By some feat of gymnastic flexibility, he even managed to bend himself down enough that he could get his head on John’s shoulder, where he proceeded to hide his face in the crook of John’s neck and cling to him.

John gave a grunt of surprise as Sherlock’s weight settled on him, but he hastily shored himself up, locking his knees until he was sure he’d got his balance back. It really was a bloody awkward position to be trying to hug someone who, let’s face it, towered over him, but John couldn’t have cared less about convenience right then. All that mattered was Sherlock: Sherlock who was now burrowing into John’s embrace instead of trying to escape from it, Sherlock who was breathing in soft, sad little hitches into the side of John’s neck, Sherlock who so obviously, desperately wanted to be comforted.

John’s eyes stung, and he had to quickly close them against the sudden sharp press of tears. Wrapping Sherlock in the tightest hug he could manage, he began to croon reassurance into Sherlock’s ear, trying to ignore the fact that his own voice wasn’t quite steady.

“Okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s okay. I’m right here. We’re going to fix this, all right? We’re going to fix it and it’s all going to be fine.”

There was no answer from Sherlock, just hitching snuffles from where he’d determinedly hidden his face. John brought a hand up to twine into his curls, leaving the other on Sherlock’s back in the closest facsimile to their usual cuddle time position he could find.

“It’s okay,” he murmured again. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you, do you hear me? We’ll work this out together, Sherlock. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”

It _was_ going to be fine. John was going to fix it – somehow – just as soon as Sherlock was in any state for it to be fixed. And for right now, he was going to provide all the comforting Sherlock needed, bloody awkward position or no, because that was what Sherlock – his very own mad, _daft_ genius – was trusting him to do.

Not that he himself was any less daft. He was still reeling over how completely oblivious he’d been. It seemed so bloody obvious now that he understood, and he’d even suspected that there was something more to Sherlock’s behaviour than he was seeing, but somehow it had still taken him until now to realise just what that something was. For God’s sake, the possibility hadn’t even _occurred_ to him.

And it should have. It _should_ have. He might not be the deductive genius that Sherlock was, but he knew just as much about – no, let’s face it, in a lot of ways he knew _more_ about human behaviour than Sherlock did. Poor Sherlock, who had been so distressed at being found out that John wondered if he’d really understood himself what he was doing. Oh, he’d obviously known on an intellectual level that he was doing it and why, but the fact that Sherlock, Mr Cold and Superior himself, would go to those lengths just to get a hug from John … that had to have been confusing for him.

Renewed sympathy made his chest ache again, and John automatically tried to cuddle Sherlock even closer. Christ, yes, it must have been confusing for him, and really it was no bloody wonder that he’d been so stroppy. Even if some of it had been feigned in order to earn him punishments, John would bet anything he had that some of it hadn’t been, too. He knew a genuinely stroppy Sherlock when he saw one, and he’d definitely seen one on multiple occasions this past week.

Damn it, but he should have understood. He should have. He wanted to bloody kick himself for not realising what was going on sooner. He’d tried so hard to get this right, to live up to the trust Sherlock was putting in him, but despite his efforts he hadn’t even considered the possibility of something like this. He hadn’t anticipated it, he hadn’t even begun to anticipate it, and even when it had been happening right in front of him he’d still remained oblivious to it for days and bloody days, even though it should have been bloody well obvious to him because now that he knew about it, it just made so much bloody _sense_.

And honestly, _honestly_ , it was just so bloody _stupid_ , because if Sherlock had wanted a cuddle, all he’d needed to do was just bloody _ask_. John would have been happy to give him one, and much happier doing it without having to punish him first.

_Oh_ , John thought suddenly, as he caught up with the direction his thoughts had just taken. Well – well, okay then. That was something, at least. It might still be a mess, and he might still want to kick himself for not seeing it sooner, but at least now he knew how he was going to fix it.

Well, provided Sherlock was willing to cooperate, of course … but no. John cut himself off in mental mid-sentence, dismissing the momentary concern. Sherlock _was_ going to cooperate; John was going to absolutely insist on it. This had to be resolved, and John had a way to resolve it, so Sherlock was bloody well going to do as he was told.

Right, John thought firmly. Good. He had a plan. He had a solution. Both of those were good.

Although they would also have to wait a bit. For right now, he needed to focus on Sherlock, who was still snuffling forlornly into the side of John’s neck and who very obviously wasn’t ready to have a conversation yet.

Right, John thought again. That was the plan, then. He would focus on Sherlock, and he would comfort him as he needed to be comforted. And then, once Sherlock was feeling better, they were going to have another discussion about the rules, and John would make very sure that they didn’t have to deal with a mess like this ever again.

Determined on that front, and feeling quite a bit better now that he had a plan to work with, John returned his full attention to his armful of distressed Sherlock. It wasn’t nearly as easy to cuddle Sherlock like this as it would have been if they were lying down, but John applied himself to it as best he could, holding Sherlock close to him, stroking his hair and keeping up a steady, soothing litany of reassurance.

He was duly rewarded for his efforts when Sherlock slowly began to relax, the unhappy tension gradually leaching out of him under John’s hands and gentle words. John might, he thought wryly, be quite capable of buggering things up in other areas, but he fancied that he _was_ becoming quite good at the cuddling part.

Sherlock certainly seemed to think so, at least, judging by the lengths he was apparently willing to go to for more of it.

He suspected that Sherlock would have gladly accepted quite a bit more of John’s cuddling now, too – but it really _was_ an awkward position, and once Sherlock began to calm down from his initial upset it wasn’t long before he noticed it. Almost as soon as his breathing stopped hitching he began to shift his weight, easing himself from foot to foot in what John assumed was an attempt to make himself more comfortable. When that apparently didn’t work, he tried shifting his shoulders instead, only to sigh in frustration when the desired effect still wasn’t realised.

“We could lie down on the bed if you like,” John suggested gently, but that earned him a quick shake of Sherlock’s curly head, which was, despite all his squirming around, still firmly buried in the crook of John’s neck.

“Okay,” John quickly assured him, patting his back to reinforce it. “We’ll stay here, that’s fine.”

That only gained him another headshake, though, and then there was a pause that seemed somehow expectant, as if Sherlock was gathering himself. Then – with another, heavier sigh, and visible reluctance – he pulled out of John’s embrace and slowly straightened up.

John was a bit reluctant himself to give up on the cuddle – seeing Sherlock so distressed had pushed his protective instincts into high gear – but he reminded himself that there would be plenty of time for more cuddles later, after this whole mess had been resolved. He let his arms drop as Sherlock moved, and Sherlock carefully stepped backwards and away from him, regarding him in wary silence. He seemed to have regained his composure, but John could hardly miss the way Sherlock had folded his arms defensively in front of him, or the look on his face that suggested he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

John met his gaze steadily, sympathy and affection silently warring for the top spot inside him. He hoped Sherlock could see it, that he would start to understand that there was no other shoe to _be_ dropped. They might have a problem that needed solving, but John certainly had no intention of condemning Sherlock for discovering – belatedly – that he actually had human needs just like everyone else.

Apparently Sherlock saw something, because he blinked, and a little of the wariness faded from his eyes. In return, John gave him a small, wry smile.

“You’re an idiot, you know,” he said, although his tone was far too fond for it to sound anything like real criticism.

Sherlock scowled at him anyway. “Helpful,” he replied, but as if to mirror John’s, his attempt at an acerbic tone wasn’t nearly as biting as it could have been.

“I’m an idiot too,” John told him, meaning every word. “We’re both bloody idiots.”

Sherlock huffed in a way that told John he was only partly mollified by that, but John could already see that he was holding himself less stiffly, some of the rigid tension easing out of his shoulders. Relieved, he felt his own shoulders loosen in automatic response.

“Right,” he said, and gave Sherlock another rueful little smile. “Now that we’ve established that, come and sit down. We need to have another discussion about the rules.”

Sherlock looked pained, and John could almost guess what he was thinking. After all, Sherlock had made it clear that the rules conversation had been quite bad enough the first time, so it probably wasn’t surprising that he had no desire to revisit it.

“John …” Sherlock began to protest, his voice hovering just on the edge of a whine.

“No arguments,” John said more sternly, cutting off Sherlock’s complaint before it could be fully realised. “I mean it, Sherlock. This needs sorting out now, and I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s got to be done, so come and sit down.”

That got him another sullen sounding huff, but perhaps Sherlock realised that John did indeed mean it, because after a moment he moved reluctantly over to the bed. He waited for John to sit down, then gingerly followed suit, perching himself right on the end where there would be the maximum possible space between them.

_Compensating_ , John thought, and he felt another sharp pang of sympathy. Sherlock could be hard to read, but John fancied that he was getting quite a bit better at it, and right now he didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Sherlock was feeling deeply insecure.

John just hoped that the solution he was about to propose – to insist on, actually – would make Sherlock feel better and not worse.

“Okay,” he said, taking a deliberate breath. “The rules, then. I’m adding a new one to the list, as of right now. And you listen, Sherlock, because this is important.” He shot Sherlock a look to make sure he was listening, and received a flat, watchful stare in response. Sherlock was listening, all right, but John could tell he was worried.

But he _was_ listening, so it was time for John to simply lay it out. “Right,” he said decisively. “Okay then, here it is. From now on, cuddle time is no longer a thing that only happens after you’ve been punished. From now on, it happens whenever you want it to happen. If you want a cuddle, all you have to do is tell me. What you absolutely will _not_ do is deliberately try to earn yourself a punishment just so that you can have a cuddle afterwards. I’m not having that, Sherlock. If you want affection from me, I’ll gladly give it to you. There will be no strings attached to that affection. You don’t have to be punished first. You don’t have to earn it or give me anything in return. All you have to do is tell me that you want it. Is that understood?”

He hoped it was. He hoped Sherlock would agree to it without a fight. It was a good solution; it would solve their current problem, and it would also ensure that Sherlock – who John was quite convinced had been touch starved for far too long – got more affection to make up for that earlier lack. Honestly, John didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of suggesting it before, because even without the current problem it seemed to him like a bloody good idea. And it certainly wasn’t as though he minded having more cuddles.

He waited expectantly, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s expression hadn’t changed as John was speaking – John wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not – and it was still unchanged now. He looked, John thought, a bit like he was waiting for John to keep talking.

“Sherlock,” he said again, when a few more moments passed and Sherlock still didn’t respond. “Do you understand?”

He half expected to receive a cutting reply – Sherlock didn’t tend to like being asked if he understood, and was just as likely to take it as an insult – but instead, Sherlock only blinked at him. A hint of uncertainty had crept into his face, his forehead creasing a little in apparent puzzlement.

“… Is that it?” he finally asked. He sounded doubtful – and a little impatient too, as if he knew that there had to be more and John was just taking far too long to get to it.

John wasn’t sure what else Sherlock had been expecting, but he wasn’t prepared to play guessing games about it, not when he was trying his best to move them towards a solution.

“Have I missed something?” he asked bluntly. “I think having that as a rule will solve our problem. But if you don’t agree, then I’m quite willing to discuss it.”

And he was, although unless Sherlock had a very good alternative, they would be going with John’s new rule whether Sherlock liked it or not. John was happy to modify it if it turned out that it needed modifying, but they were bloody well going to have something in place to make sure that there wasn’t a repeat of this.

Sherlock was still eyeing him suspiciously, wearing the same sort of look John had seen him give to experiments that were refusing to conform to his expectations. He shook his head at John’s question, a quick, agitated back and forth.

“No, that’s not what I – I don’t mean the rule. That probably will work, if I – I don’t know if I – I mean is that _it_?” he demanded abruptly, with more emphasis this time. “Is that all you’re going to say? Aren’t you – don’t you want to know why?”

Sherlock sounded thoroughly and uncharacteristically flustered, his mask of composure seeming to slip further with every word. Even against the background of his sharp tone, the stop-and-start of his sentences and the way he kept cutting himself off before he could finish them told John that Sherlock was far more rattled than he was trying to let on.

And that wasn’t even going into what he was actually saying. John thought he might understand at least some of Sherlock’s confusion now. It seemed he had been expecting further interrogation – and perhaps even condemnation – about what he had been doing and why, and John’s bypassing all of that to get them to a solution had thrown him even more off balance than he already was.

But did Sherlock actually want to tell him why? Or had he been dreading the questions and hoping to avoid them? There was, John thought, only one way to find out.

Deliberately gentle, he asked, “Do you want to tell me why?”

“I don’t know why!” Sherlock fired back immediately, seeming almost to bubble over with sudden agitation. He was on his feet again even as he spoke, poised tensely beside the bed as if he didn’t know whether to run or stay.

So much for Sherlock’s mask of composure. John had to fight the urge to get up too, part of him wanting to be on his feet and ready in case Sherlock did make a break for it, but he forced himself to stay where he was. Sherlock was obviously feeling threatened – his body language was practically shouting it – and John would be less of a threatening figure if he stayed put.

“Well, that’s okay,” he said, still keeping his tone carefully mild and reassuring. “If you don’t know, that’s okay, Sherlock. If you want to talk about it, we can. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. The important thing is that we find a solution, right? I don’t want this to happen again, and I don’t think you do either. I’d much rather just be able to give you a cuddle when you want one, without you feeling like you have to try to manipulate me into giving you one.”

He spread his hands earnestly, palms up, willing Sherlock to see his sincerity. “I don’t like punishing you,” he said – stating the obvious, he knew, but it seemed as though it was worth saying. “You don’t like being punished. But if you’re willing to just tell me when you want a cuddle, then you can have them without being punished first, and we don’t need to worry about this happening again. I think that would work for both of us, yeah?”

Sherlock seemed to have lost some of his coiled-spring tension – he no longer looked as if he was about to make a run for it, at least – but his expression had fallen back into wary suspicion, his eyes narrowed as they raked over John’s face, his body, very obviously cataloguing and deducing. He didn’t seem to know quite what to make of what he saw, because he shook his head again, a quick, sharp movement as if he was trying to shake away an irritation.

“You mean that,” he said, appearing almost frustrated. “But I don’t –” He cut himself off again, took a breath and spoke in a more level tone. “You’re not angry with me.”

It was a statement, not a question, but John still considered for a moment before he replied, wanting to make sure that he answered it honestly. A moment was all it took, though, because Sherlock was right: John wasn’t angry with him. He’d been confused, and frustrated, and once he’d understood he’d been angry with himself – and still was a bit, for that matter. But he wasn’t angry with Sherlock, not about this. Even if he might have been, over the manipulation if nothing else, seeing Sherlock’s distress would have been more than enough to put paid to it.

He met Sherlock’s gaze steadily, satisfied that he had his honest answer. “No,” he said, confirming what Sherlock had already seen. “I’m not angry with you.”

But the reassurance only seemed to add to Sherlock’s frustration. “Why not?” he demanded, as if John was doing something entirely unreasonable by not being angry with him. “Why aren’t you?”

John had had no intention of trying to force Sherlock to talk, not if he didn’t want to. It was, he thought, far more important that they find a solution that would prevent a repeat of all this, at least for right now. That said, however, if Sherlock actually wanted to have this out – and despite his protests he did seem to be trying to keep the conversation going – then John wasn’t about to stop him.

“Do you think I should be?” he asked. It was rhetorical, of course – Sherlock obviously did think that he should be – but John thought it was a decent opening for Sherlock to explain why.

Although if Sherlock’s scowl was any indication, he didn’t much appreciate it. “Don’t be obtuse when you don’t need to be,” he snapped. “I manipulated you. I was deceitful. You don’t like that. It makes you angry.” He glared at John, fairly bristling with defensive ire. “Why aren’t you angry?”

“Because of why you did it,” John said bluntly. Rhetorical questions obviously weren’t the right approach; Sherlock seemed to want to talk, but at the same time he seemed determined to turn it back on John, to demand that John explain himself and defend his motivations. John supposed it made sense in a way, at least from the point of view of a prickly, anxious Sherlock. It probably made him feel less vulnerable to go on the attack, even in just a small way.

Well, fine. John wasn’t about to force explanations out of Sherlock that he wasn’t ready to give, but if Sherlock wanted them from him, then John was willing to provide them. Sherlock wanted to know why he wasn’t angry, so John would tell him why, honestly and openly. Maybe, he thought, it would even encourage Sherlock to do the same.

“You’re right,” he went on, before Sherlock had a chance to snap back at him again. “I don’t like being manipulated, or deceived. But it’s not just black and white, Sherlock. You didn’t do it to be malicious. You didn’t do it to be self-serving.” That wasn’t exactly accurate, and John hastily tried to backpedal and explain at the same time, not wanting to give Sherlock an excuse to dismiss what he was saying. “Well, no, yes you did, but not … not in a terrible way.” His voice had softened without him meaning it to, renewed sympathy for what Sherlock had felt he had to do making it automatically gentle.

“You don’t like being punished any more than I like punishing you,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious again, but wanting to say it anyway, wanting Sherlock to hear that he understood. “You must have really wanted those cuddles to be willing to do all that.”

Sherlock blinked as if taken aback, and something seemed to shift in his face, some of the angry flash going out of his eyes. He looked suddenly vulnerable again, unwillingly vulnerable, as if John’s words had touched him in spite of himself. He didn’t say anything, though, and John quickly spoke on before Sherlock could struggle back into his resentful mask.

“And it’s partly my fault anyway,” he said. It wasn’t just a claim he was making to share the blame around, either; he meant it. He should have understood much sooner than this, not just what Sherlock was doing, but why.

“I made you feel as though there was a price you had to pay to get affection from me,” he went on, the words coloured with very real regret. “I didn’t realise I was doing it, but that is what I did, because I only gave you affection like that after you’d been punished, even though I worked out pretty quickly that you liked it and you needed it.”

There was dawning astonishment in Sherlock’s face now, competing with the lingering traces of distress and pique. He was staring at John as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns, looking almost comically surprised. But he still wasn’t interrupting, and John took advantage of Sherlock’s continued silence to finish off his unplanned little speech as best he could.

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it,” he said earnestly. “Maybe part of my head was still stuck on that first time, when I wasn’t sure if you’d even let me hug you. I don’t know. But I do know that I had all the data and I should have realised, I should have understood, and I didn’t. And I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

The apology seemed to be the final straw that took the wind right out of Sherlock’s sails – a mixed metaphor but a bloody accurate one, John thought. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, his mouth opened – stayed open for a moment – and then when no words seemed willing to come out, closed again with an incredulous huff of air. Finally, still gaping at John, he managed to sputter out, “ _You’re_ sorry?”

His tone was sheer disbelief, and John had a moment of vague amusement that he had apparently managed to flummox Sherlock – Sherlock! – so completely. It appeared that not only had Sherlock not anticipated John’s apology, but it had actually taken him entirely by surprise.

_Again_ , John thought. His apology for the in-public thing had caught Sherlock off guard too. And yet despite that taking place not even an hour ago, Sherlock, the master of deduction himself, still seemed quite perplexed by receiving another one. It was as if he simply didn’t _expect_ John to apologise to him, as if he didn’t even factor it in as a possibility – not even, John thought a bit grimly, when he was owed one.

Well, that was all the more reason for John to make it clear that he _would_ apologise if it was owed.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, I am. Because I gave you the wrong impression, not intentionally, but even so. I am sorry that I did that and so I’m apologising.”

He held Sherlock’s disconcerted gaze for a long moment, trying to convey his very real sincerity as best he could, trusting that Sherlock, of all people, would be able to see it for what it was. And then, hoping to perhaps steer them back in the direction of something more constructive – because apologies were all very well but they didn’t fix problems – he added in a lighter, but still earnest tone, “But what I’d really like to do now is fix it. So – are we agreed on the new rule? Because I think that will fix it.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed with a thump. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as if his knees had suddenly gone out from under him, but it wasn’t that far from it, either.

“You mean it,” he said. His tone was level again, but he was still staring at John as if he was an experiment gone wrong.

It hadn’t actually sounded like a question, but John confirmed it anyway. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, sounding almost blank. There was a long pause while he worried at his lower lip with his teeth. Then, abruptly, he drew in a sharp breath and added, “I’m sorry too.”

Well, this was sounding more promising, John thought. “Apology accepted,” he replied without hesitation.

“Oh,” Sherlock said again, a bit awkwardly this time. “Yes. Yours is too. Accepted.”

John felt his lips quirk up at the corners and tried to restrain it, not sure if they were at a point yet where smiling would be all right. “Glad to hear it.”

“I should have realised,” Sherlock was going on, in that same slightly awkward tone. “That I didn’t need – that you’d be willing to –” He cut himself off again and shook his head irritably. “Stupid.”

This time John did let himself smile, albeit ruefully. “How about we call it even on this one?” he suggested. “This is new for both of us, yeah? It’s probably a bit much to expect that we’d get it perfect right off the bat.”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, and then pressed his lips together as if in distaste. “I suppose,” he allowed stiffly.

The fact that Sherlock was very obviously put out about not getting it perfect right off the bat only made John want to smile even more. However, as endearing as it was – and it really was – it still wasn’t answering his question about their new rule.

“So –”

“I’m not sure if I can,” Sherlock cut in. At John’s raised eyebrow and look of incomprehension, he elaborated, “Ask. I’m not sure if I can ask. I agree that the rule makes sense. And I can try. But I don’t know – how successful I’ll be.”

He glanced away on that last, looking uneasy. John wanted very much to reach out to him, and only checked himself because Sherlock was still sitting right at the end of the bed in a clear, if silent, request for space.

“Okay,” he said, and in lieu of being able to reach out with a soothing hand, he tried to make his voice soothing instead. “That’s okay, Sherlock. If it’s going to be a problem to do that, then it’s best that we know now.”

Sherlock’s face had tightened again in renewed frustration. “It’s sentiment, John,” he said. “I’m not good at sentiment. I’m not good at – anything like that.”

John might have argued that in fact, Sherlock could be quite good indeed at sentiment, but he suspected that it would fall on deaf ears, at least right at the moment. He tried another tack instead.

“You’re good at asking for what you want,” he pointed out. “Demanding what you want, actually, most of the time.”

Sherlock’s head cocked to the side, and he appeared to be considering this. After only a moment, though, he sighed and shook his head.

“This is –” He broke off, hesitated, and then finished uncomfortably, “Different.”

_Because he wants it too much_ , John thought. He wasn’t sure where the knowledge came from, but he was suddenly almost certain of it. Sherlock could ask for plenty of other things that he wanted – demand them, in fact, without even batting an eyelid. But he also wouldn’t bat an eyelid if he didn’t get them. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true; he might well be frustrated and throw a strop about it; John had certainly seen that before. But he wouldn’t bat an eyelid _emotionally_ , not on any deep level. He’d get over being frustrated and either not care or simply find a way around it.

But not this. He wouldn’t be able to not care if he didn’t get this. He might be able to find a way around it (that was, after all, exactly what he’d been doing all this week), but if he actually _asked_ and then didn’t get it …

It would hurt him, John thought, that aching sympathy rising in his chest again. Sherlock didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to take the risk of being refused. He wanted it too much to be able to ask for it so … casually.

He wasn’t sure how much of his thought process had shown in his face, although if Sherlock’s unsettled look was any indication, he had deduced at least some of it. John hastily tried to cover, not wanting to embarrass Sherlock any more than he already had.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Okay then.” His mouth had momentarily run ahead of his brain, and he had to think for a moment, trying to work out where to go next. His plan wasn’t going to work. That was a setback, but the solution was obviously to find a plan that _would_ work. So, okay – new plan.

“Okay,” he said again. “Well – we need to think about how else we can make this work. What about …” He paused again, mentally groping for ideas, then brightened. “Okay, how about this? If you don’t think you can outright ask me, what about a signal? Something you can say that isn’t outright asking. A code.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. “A code,” he echoed, somehow managing to sound completely neutral and yet highly dubious at the same time.

“Why not?” John asked, undeterred. “We’ve already got a code phrase for dangerous situations, right? Why not one for this too?”

Sherlock’s head cocked to the side again, and he was silent for a moment. John waited, and finally Sherlock gave a little shrug, his eyes cautiously meeting John’s.

“I … suppose it could work.”

“Okay,” John said, warming to the idea. “Okay, good. How about we try that, then? We need something, Sherlock,” he added earnestly. “Either we have some way for you to ask me, or we – I don’t know, introduce mandatory daily cuddles until we can work something out.”

He paused to imagine that – because by God he would do it, if it came down to it – and immediately thought of another possible sticking point. “And even then we’d be in trouble if you wanted more than one in a day,” he pointed out. “It really would be a damn sight easier if there was some way you could just tell me.”

Sherlock was staring at him again, with that startled, John-you-are-an-experiment-gone-wrong look back on his face, and John wondered with some curiosity what he’d said to set it off this time. Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to enlighten him, though, and John wasn’t quite curious enough to derail the conversation to ask, not when they were supposed to be finding a solution to their problem. When it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything – about whatever had surprised him or about John’s new plan – John tried hopefully prompting him.

“So … code phrase?”

Sherlock blinked at him, then seemed to shake off his unexplained surprise. “I … yes, all right,” he said. His tone had become crisper after his initial hesitation, and he gave a sharp nod. “We can try it.”

“Okay,” John said in relief. “Good. That’s good.” Wanting to be reassuring, he added, “Look, if it doesn’t work, we can always go back to the drawing board and try something else. But we’re going to put something in place so that you know you can get a cuddle when you want one, right?”

There was that impression of something shifting in Sherlock’s eyes again, and for just a moment John thought his face was about to crumple. But then it smoothed out, returned to neutral, and his voice, when he replied, was perfectly even. “All right.”

John was quite sure he hadn’t been wrong about that flash of emotion, but Sherlock’s quick recovery seemed to be a definite indicator that he’d prefer not to have it mentioned, and so John didn’t mention it.

“Right,” he said instead. “Good.” Onto the obvious next step, then, he thought. “So what’s the phrase? You should choose. Something you won’t delete,” he added wryly.

“I wouldn’t delete it,” Sherlock told him scornfully. “I don’t delete things that are actually useful.”

He was still for a moment after that, his eyes going briefly unfocused, and John assumed he was thinking something up. He was proved right when Sherlock said abruptly, “Spot harmonics.”

Well, that was an interesting one. John wasn’t even going to try to work out how Sherlock had come up with that, although he supposed that the ‘harmonics’ part could perhaps be a reference to his violin. He hadn’t a clue about the ‘spot’ part.

It didn’t matter, though. The words apparently meant something to Sherlock, and John honestly didn’t care what phrase he wanted to use so long as he bloody well used it.

“Okay,” he said. “Spot harmonics it is. You say spot harmonics, and that means you want a cuddle. Right. We’re agreed on that?”

Sherlock gave a solemn nod, no longer scornful; agreements were serious business, after all. “Yes.”

“Okay,” John said gratefully. “And when you say it, I agree to give you a cuddle.”

But even as he said it, he was already thinking about the potential difficulties in making that so open-ended, and he hastily added some codicils. “As soon as I possibly can,” he amended. “Um – right then if I’m not doing anything that can’t wait. If I’m in the middle of something important, then as soon as I can get away from it. And if I’m out, or we’re out, then you can say it or text it or whatever, and it can be as soon as we get home.”

That should work, he thought, running through it again in his head and trying to spot any holes in it. He couldn’t, or at least not any obvious ones. No, it should work. Hopefully.

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in question. “What do you think?” Personally, John thought it was pretty good for having been thought up on the fly.

Sherlock was eyeing him with what John suspected might be a hint of amusement, although his tone gave nothing away. “Very thorough,” he said.

“I should hope so,” John replied feelingly. “We’re in this mess partly because I wasn’t thorough enough before.”

“No,” Sherlock said, with a quick shake of his head. “You were thorough. There were … well.” He paused, delicately, and gave a rueful little grimace. “There were complications that neither of us took into consideration.”

John knew that was a major concession for Sherlock, who hated having to admit that he might not have thought of everything. Personally, John still felt that the lion’s share of the blame was his, for being so bloody oblivious if nothing else, but he couldn’t deny that Sherlock bore some of the responsibility too – for being so bloody manipulative if nothing else. Really, he thought, it probably was better that they just chalk this one up as a shared mistake, and concentrate instead on moving forward from it.

“I suppose that’s what happens when you’re making it up as you go along,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s rueful look with a matching one of his own. Their gazes held for a moment, and then John offered in a lighter tone, “But we’ll get it right now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, solemn again. “And yes.” At John’s questioning look, he added, “I agree to your terms.”

Thank Christ for that, John thought in relief. Trying not to get too prematurely optimistic, he asked just to be sure, “Nothing we need to add to it?”

Sherlock frowned briefly, appearing to consider, but then he shook his head again. “No, I don’t think so.”

Just to be doubly sure, John spent a few moments hastily trying to think of anything that could trip them up that he hadn’t yet thought of – although honestly, if Sherlock hadn’t thought of it, then John suspected he probably wasn’t going to have much luck. Still, he was pleased when he came up blank, even so. It really did seem like a reasonable solution to him. Sherlock had a phrase to say to let John know that he wanted a cuddle, and John had an agreed upon response to that phrase. It shouldn’t have to be any more complicated than that. They might need some time to get used to it, of course, but if they both did their parts, John thought that it ought to solve their problem quite handily.

“Okay,” he said, and even though he was trying to sound neutral, he could still hear the relief leaking into his voice. “Okay, that’s good. So we’re agreed. We’ve got a code phrase, we’ve got cuddle terms, we’ve got … an agreement.”

Thank Christ for that, he thought again, fervently.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, although he was quick to add, “Though I’m still not sure how well it’s going to work. Even though I’m not asking, I’m still … asking. I’m not used to asking. But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sherlock …” John found himself wanting very much to reach out again, and had to mentally sit on his hands to keep from doing it, still unsure if Sherlock would welcome the overture.

“That’s all I’m asking,” he said instead, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Just try it, yeah? If we need to make changes, then we can. If it turns out that it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work, and that’s okay. It’s not the end of the world, and we’ll find another way to do it. But if it doesn’t work, then you need to tell me, so that we can sit down together and think of something else. Okay?”

It was difficult to tell, since Sherlock’s expression barely flickered, but John thought he did look a little reassured after hearing that. “Okay,” Sherlock said. “Yes.”

“We’re agreed,” John prompted, just to be sure. “You’ll tell me if you think it’s really not going to work.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Good.” Still trying to make sure he didn’t miss anything, John added in mild warning, “I do expect you to give it a reasonable try first, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit at that, but his reply was dutiful – they were still talking agreements, after all. “Yes, I’ll try.”

“Good,” John repeated, and this time he cautiously allowed himself to just be relieved. They’d managed to find a solution, even if it was still a tentative one. Thank bloody Christ for that.

“All right, then,” he said, with grateful finality. “That’s our plan for now. And _if_ we need to come up with something else, then we will. I’m sure between us we’ll be able to think of another way to do it.”

He caught the faintly mocking lift of Sherlock’s eyebrow, and now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “You’ve already thought of one, haven’t you?” he asked in resignation.

“Seven,” Sherlock informed him crisply.

John felt his own eyebrows start to climb towards his hairline, and then wondered why he was even surprised. Of course Sherlock had already thought of seven other bloody alternatives, of _course_ he had. He was _Sherlock_ , after all.

“Seven,” he echoed wryly, and Sherlock gave a little shrug.

“Off the top of my head,” he said. “Although I will admit that having a code phrase is probably the simplest solution.”

John shook his head, amused in spite of himself. “Bloody hell. Well, at least we’ve got options.” He paused to consider, then asked with interest, “Was one of them getting one of those letterboxes with the flag? You know, postie puts the flag up to signal when there’s mail …?”

Sherlock gave him a long look, and then, deadpan, intoned, “Eight.”

John chuckled. “We can call that one a last resort.”

“Probably for the best,” Sherlock agreed, voice perfectly level. There was a minute pause, and then he said more quietly, “John.”

The change in tone caught John’s attention, quickly sobering him. “What?”

“Thank you.”

The words were steady, and Sherlock’s tone was still coolly composed, but John had no doubts whatsoever about his sincerity. The softly spoken gratitude brought the beginnings of a lump to his throat, and even as he tried to will it away, he found himself fairly longing to just close the space between them, and finally pull Sherlock into his arms for a proper and much needed cuddle.

He thought he might well have done it, too, even with Sherlock still perched on the opposite end of the bed from him – because surely, now that they’d reached a resolution, Sherlock would be more likely to accept a cuddle. But what kept John in place this time wasn’t his concern about giving Sherlock space. His brain had thrown up another obstacle instead, and it was insisting quite loudly indeed that John ought to pay attention to it.

Because the fact was that their problem solving discussion appeared to be all but over. A solution had been found, they had come to an agreement on it, and at least for the moment Sherlock didn’t appear to have any interest in talking further about what exactly had been going on in his head this past week, the still unexamined _why_ that was the minor elephant in the room. And while John remained hopeful that he might, later, want to talk more about it, he was planning to let Sherlock come to that – if he did – in his own time. And as far as he could tell, there didn’t seem to be any indication that the time was now.

All of that was, of course, perfectly fine. But taken together, it did mean that their conversation seemed to be over for the moment. And that could only mean that it was time to move on from their conversation to the next order of business.

And _that_ , unfortunately, meant that Sherlock was still due the rest of his interrupted punishment over his crane climbing activities.

And as much as John might wish that it wasn’t the case, and that he didn’t have to go through with it, he knew very well that it was and he did. Sherlock might be unhappy about being punished, but he’d be a damn sight more unhappy if John backed down and let him off. Or, for that matter, if John even hinted at the mere possibility of backing down and letting him off.

So, as much as John might want to just cuddle Sherlock within an inch of his life, he knew that he couldn’t, at least not yet. And he knew very well what it was that he did have to do. He had to suck it up and do what Sherlock would expect him to do, what they had agreed that he would do, and step back into his disciplinarian role as firmly and effectively as he could. They had been in the middle of the punishment routine when all of this had come to light, and now that it had been resolved – or resolved as well as it could be for now, at least – it was time for them to pick back up where they had left off. And it was up to John to make sure it got done, because that was part of his role as Sherlock’s authority figure. He might not enjoy doing it, but he _would_ do it.

And the sooner they got it over with, the sooner he’d be able to finally give Sherlock that very overdue feeling cuddle. John tried to comfort himself with the prospect, even as he resigned himself to what he was about to do. It was, he thought, a damn good incentive to get on with it as efficiently as possible.

And just in case he needed any further incentive, all he had to do was take a quick look at Sherlock. John’s internal deliberations had lasted only moments, but he could already see the hint of disquiet that had appeared in Sherlock’s face, the wariness creeping back into his expression as he eyed John cautiously. Of course; he was reading John’s body language, and no doubt deducing all the changes as John mentally shifted gears.

Right, then. No delays. Time to get it over with.

Steeling himself, John met Sherlock’s eyes with a look that – he hoped – was both fond and firmly resolved. “You’re welcome,” he said, and he meant it completely. “More than welcome.”

Sherlock didn’t look particularly comforted, obviously hearing the as yet unspoken ‘but’. Knowing it had to be done, John duly supplied it, forcibly squashing down his regret and speaking with deliberate, measured calm.

“But don’t thank me yet,” he said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m afraid you still have a spanking coming.”

 


	4. Tightened Security

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the final chapter, finally! I just couldn’t find a good place to break this one up, so it took ages but it does go right to the end. There’s talking, spanking, and more talking. And then a nap, because it’s been a very long day for both of them.

 

John doubted that Sherlock actually had forgotten, but perhaps he might have been hoping that John had, because his face fell. “Oh,” he said glumly, and all of a sudden he looked terribly forlorn again.

John was relieved to see, however, that it was much more the melodramatic ‘please don’t spank me’ kind of forlorn this time, rather than the very real distress he had seen on Sherlock’s face earlier. It wasn’t that he didn’t still sympathise – he did; Sherlock had been running short on sleep and long on punishment all this week, and it was hardly surprising that he would be unhappy about the prospect of yet another spanking. But it was a good deal easier to hold the line against a Sherlock who was indulging in a bit of drama than it was against a Sherlock who was really, genuinely upset.

And hold the line he would. “Oh indeed,” he replied. He half rose so that he could shift back down the bed, and settled himself back into the position he’d been in originally: roughly in the middle so that Sherlock would have room to stretch out across his lap. The hairbrush – which had been quite forgotten during their rather fraught discussion – was still conveniently where he’d left it, and after a quick glance to make sure it was within reach, John turned an expectant look towards the foot of the bed, where Sherlock was still anxiously perched.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the hairbrush, then back up to John’s face. “Do we have to?” he asked plaintively.

“Yes, we do,” John told him. He pointed a firm finger at the spot on the floor beside him. “Come on, up you get.”

Sherlock still didn’t move. “Couldn’t you let me off just this once?”

His gaze had turned imploringly hopeful. John met it with a stern, deliberate stare.

“No,” he said. “And I don’t want to hear any more arguments. You know exactly why you’re being punished. It’s because you did something that we agreed you’ll get punished for doing. I’m not going back on our agreement, and so no, I’m not letting you off. Now stand up and come here.”

He’d made the reference to their agreement very deliberately, well aware that Sherlock had just suffered through a major episode of insecurity. Even though they had got things sorted out, all that emotional upheaval would have taken a serious toll, and John thought it was very likely that Sherlock would still be looking for reassurance. In fact, he thought it was entirely possible that Sherlock’s protests were, in large part, an attempt to elicit that reassurance in the form of John refusing to give in to him.

As if to confirm his theory, Sherlock’s eyes widened at the mention of their agreement, and something flashed across his face that John thought could easily have been relief. He hoped it was – although even if he was right, it seemed that Sherlock hadn’t had enough yet, because it didn’t stop his complaining.

“But I’ve just been through an emotional experience,” he said, almost as if he’d been reading John’s mind – or more likely, John thought, deducing it from his body language. “You know how hard those are for me. I’m in a fragile state.”

He said it with a perfectly straight face, and it really was a good thing that John was well into his disciplinarian mindset or he might have done something completely inappropriate, like laugh out loud. ‘A fragile state’, honestly. Manipulative git.

Not that he didn’t have plenty of sympathy for the fact that Sherlock most likely _was_ in a bit of a fragile state. But to state it so baldly and openly in an attempt to talk his way out of punishment – or rather, in an attempt to _act_ as though he was trying to talk his way out of punishment, when in fact he’d be very unhappy indeed if he actually succeeded – well, the whole convoluted thing was just so Sherlock.

Fortunately, John was well into his disciplinarian mindset, and so he managed quite well at keeping his expression entirely resolute.

“I do know how hard those are for you,” he said evenly. “But while I’d like nothing more than to give you a cuddle, I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait until after your punishment.”

Sherlock bit his lip in what John suspected was a deliberately tentative manner. “But I need to be consoled,” he said, his tone endearingly earnest.

John was convinced now that Sherlock was pushing for reassurance, protesting simply to make sure that any token objections would be ignored. The plea for consolation was openly playing on John’s sympathies – because John was quite sure that Sherlock _did_ need to be consoled, and he wanted very much to do the consoling. He would also be willing to bet that Sherlock was quite well aware of that, and wouldn’t hesitate to use it to test John’s resolve.

Indeed, Sherlock wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. Fresh from an admission that he doubted he’d even be able to ask for a cuddle when he wanted one – which was the whole reason they now had a code phrase to use – here he was expressing a need for comfort without batting an eyelid. Sherlock might call John an idiot, but he wasn’t that much of an idiot. Sherlock did need to be consoled, John was sure, but right now what he needed more was assurance that John wasn’t going to back down.

And that was fine. If it would make Sherlock feel more secure, then John was happy to provide it.

“I’ll console you as much as you like after you’ve had your spanking,” he said. He did his best to project as much firm resolve as he could, trying to demonstrate with both his tone and his body language that nothing had changed. “Not before, I’m afraid. Now up, please, and let’s get it over with.”

Sherlock still didn’t obey, but his gaze raked briefly over John, a quick, searching scan down and then back up. His expression was still one of hopeful entreaty, but John could see the light of calculation in his eyes. No, definitely not even trying to be subtle.

“What if I used the code phrase now?” Sherlock asked carefully. As if for effect, he bit his lip again, his eyes widening in appeal.

And that right there, John thought wryly, was why it had been a good idea to be thorough about The Terms of the Cuddle Code. Sherlock had to know exactly what he was going to say, but he obviously wanted to hear it said anyway.

“I’m in the middle of something important,” John said, calmly quoting from the terms they had just agreed to. “But you can have a cuddle just as soon as I’m finished.”

He followed that up with an expectantly raised eyebrow and pointed again to the space on the floor beside him, making it quite clear what he wanted Sherlock to do.

But apparently Sherlock _still_ wasn’t satisfied. He made no move to get up, but his eyes flicked to the indicated spot and then returned, cautiously, to John’s face.

_Going to try another tack_ , John thought, having a deductive moment of his own as he took in Sherlock’s shrewd expression. He was promptly proved right when the look of calculation shifted back into earnest hope.

“I’ve had punishments all this week that I technically didn’t need to have,” Sherlock said, adding with convincing sincerity, “Wouldn’t it be only fair to let me off this one, to make up for the … misunderstanding?”

Appealing to John’s sense of fairness now. He really was trying everything he could think of, John thought. And he actually thought he could understand it; it was almost as if Sherlock was testing him for weaknesses, systematically. As if he was running through a list of possible vulnerabilities in his head, wanting to make very sure there was no button he could push that would dent John’s resolve.

And really, when John thought about it like that, it spoke volumes about just how insecure Sherlock must be feeling.

Well, not for much longer, not if John had anything to do with it. He had no doubt that Sherlock would – eventually – run out of objections to make, and he had no doubt that he could hold the line against all of them. But perhaps what Sherlock needed wasn’t just John patiently holding the line, but John properly putting his foot down. Really he’d probably already allowed more arguing than he ought to have; Sherlock knew very well that backtalk while he was being punished only earned him more punishment. John had allowed him some leeway to let him reassure himself, but perhaps it was time for him to start being a bit sterner.

With that in mind, he hardened both his expression and his voice, keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock’s as he replied.

“You earned every single one of those punishments,” he said. “The fact that you deliberately earned some of them doesn’t mean they were given unfairly. And you’ve most certainly earned the one you’re about to get. So again, no, I’m not going to let you off.”

And now to properly put his foot down, he thought. He quickly went on before Sherlock had time to voice another protest, his tone growing even sterner.

“And I think you’ve had enough confirmation now that I intend to go through with it,” he told Sherlock pointedly. “You know it’s going to happen, Sherlock. Nothing’s changed. This is what I agreed to do and I’m going to do it. Now _enough_. I don’t want to have to give you extra on top of what you’re already getting, but I will if you don’t start cooperating, and I mean right now. So, last chance: stop arguing, stand up and come here. Right now, Sherlock, or it’s extra. I mean it.”

Sherlock’s eyes had gone very wide at the sudden change in John’s demeanour, and this time it looked much more like genuine anxiety than carefully calculated appeal. Tellingly, though, the apprehension came mixed with a visible touch of relief, which Sherlock didn’t seem to be making any effort to hide.

Despite the evidence that John had done the right thing by putting his foot down, though, it seemed Sherlock couldn’t resist making one last attempt at trying to beg off.

“But I’m sore!” he told John in a plaintive tone, his lower lip jutting out into a truly impressive pout.

John directed a pointed glance downwards to where Sherlock was seated – without any apparent discomfort – on the bed.

“You don’t seem to be having any trouble sitting down,” he said evenly. His tone became more forbidding as he added, “Although you might well by the time we’re finished here. That’s an extra six.”

Sherlock looked convincingly horrified, and scrambled hastily to his feet. For a moment John thought he was finally obeying instructions, but apparently that had only been inadvertent; Sherlock still hadn’t finished with his line of argument.

“I was distracted,” he said, his hands sliding back to cup protectively over his bottom. “I’m already sore, John, I don’t want another six!”

_I don’t want_. Even in the brief seconds he had to think about it, John was already remembering the interrupted attempt they’d made at this earlier. Sherlock had tried that line then, too, protesting in woeful tones that he’d already been spanked today, and yesterday too, and _I don’t want another one_!

And John had hesitated. He’d been concerned that Sherlock’s protest might have been a genuine refusal, and he’d had to pause to make sure that it wasn’t, to make sure that _I don’t want_ didn’t actually mean _no_. He hadn’t outright asked; in the end he’d been able to read Sherlock well enough to deduce that it had indeed only been a token complaint – but even so, Sherlock had seen the moment of indecision, and he hadn’t been happy about it. As John well knew, if he even looked like he was second guessing himself, it tended to make Sherlock very uneasy.

And now Sherlock was saying it again. Testing, systematically, John thought, and was suddenly sure he was right. Saying ‘I don’t want’ had made John hesitate before, and Sherlock – in a last ditch push to cover all of his insecurity bases – wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be a repeat of that.

Well, John could certainly oblige him. He didn’t hesitate at all.

“You might not want them, but you’re getting them,” he said sternly. “And if you hadn’t misbehaved, then you wouldn’t be sore. I’ve already told you, you will be punished every time you misbehave. If this spanking hurts more because you’ve already been spanked once today, then you’ve only got yourself to blame. Now you’re already on six extra once we’re finished here. If you start doing as you’re told right now, it’ll stay at six. But if I hear one more word of argument out of you, then it’s an extra twelve, and we’ll keep counting up from there. Your choice.”

Ultimatum given, John made sure his expression remained firm and unyielding as he stared Sherlock down, waiting for him to decide. He wasn’t angry and he was in no danger of losing his temper, but he _was_ putting his foot down, as of right now, and he wanted Sherlock to see it. If Sherlock wanted to keep pushing even now, then that was up to him, but he wasn’t going to like the consequences.

Sherlock’s pout had renewed itself while John was scolding him, and it had now reached epic proportions; it would have been quite at home on a furiously sulking toddler. In fact Sherlock looked so sullenly cross that for a moment John thought he _was_ going to keep pushing, promised consequences be damned. He certainly looked like he _wanted_ to argue further – although John could still see the relief in his face as well, even more visible now that the ‘I don’t want’ line of complaint had been just as unsuccessful as the rest.

Apparently John’s instincts had been good on that count, at least. Ignoring ‘I don’t want’ as nothing more than a token protest had clearly been the right move to make Sherlock feel more secure. Duly noted, John thought determinedly.

And to his relief, it seemed that taking a hard line about further backtalk had also been the right move. Despite wearing an expression that said he had plenty of arguments left in him, Sherlock had, thank Christ, apparently thought better of actually voicing any more of them. His phenomenal pout was still firmly in place, but the seconds were ticking by and the line in the sand that John had drawn with his ‘one more word’ ultimatum remained thankfully uncrossed.

Sherlock stayed where he was, though, apparently unable to resist just a little bit more defiance – or perhaps a last push to test John’s resolve. Well, that was fine; John’s resolve was in excellent shape, thank you very much. Pressing his advantage – and not wanting to give Sherlock the chance to reconsider his compliance – John levelled a stern, expectant look at him and pointed yet again to the appropriate spot on the floor.

“Come here,” he said, in his best Captain-Watson-giving-orders tone. It was, deliberately, a tone that made it very clear that disobedience was not an option.

Sherlock huffed, and John got the impression that he was actually trying to pout harder, if that was even possible (and John suspected it wasn’t; he was pretty sure Sherlock’s pout was already at maximum strength). But despite making his displeasure plain, Sherlock nevertheless did as he was told, stepping grudgingly forward into the indicated space at John’s side.

Thank Christ for that, John thought fervently. It seemed that Sherlock was finally, finally ready to cooperate. Well, either that or he simply didn’t want to risk adding any more to his tally of extra, but either way, John would take it. He was more than willing to reassure Sherlock when he needed it – or to let Sherlock reassure himself, as the case may be – but there had to be a limit, especially since Sherlock had already been breaking the rules by arguing when he was being punished.

It suddenly occurred to John then – in another of those insightful flashes that he fancied he might be getting better at, at least where Sherlock was concerned – that the enforcement of that particular rule may, in fact, have been exactly what Sherlock had been waiting for.

It made sense, now that he’d thought of it. Sherlock _had_ been trying to reassure himself about John’s commitment, John was bloody well sure of it. So perhaps he had wanted reassurance on that front, too – confirmation that John would stick to the rules they’d agreed on, and that he would indeed hand out the expected extra penalty for backtalk. If Sherlock’s testing had been as systematic as John suspected (and he was pretty damn sure that it had been, because Sherlock was quite capable of being methodically scientific even about things that upset him), then he thought it was entirely possible that Sherlock had intended all along to just keep pushing until John followed through with extra punishment as well.

Well, if that was the case, then Sherlock had got what he wanted, even if John had perhaps taken a bit longer to get to it that he really should have. Still, perhaps it was for the best that he’d given Sherlock the chance to tick off some of his insecurity boxes, and to see for himself that he couldn’t manipulate John into backing down. John might not enjoy having to hand out extra punishment, but if Sherlock was determined to test the boundaries in order to reassure himself that they were still there, then John couldn’t actually stop him from doing that. All he could do was provide the necessary confirmation that the boundaries were indeed still there, and that so long as Sherlock accepted them, they weren’t going anywhere.

That said, though, John really would much prefer to provide reassurance in the form of comfort and cuddling, rather than scolding and extra punishment. He was very willing to give Sherlock what he needed, but he would also be more than glad to get this over with so that they could move on to cuddle time. Sherlock was long overdue for one after that fraught mess of a conversation they’d just had. And if he was entirely honest, John was feeling pretty damn overdue for one himself.

All the more reason to get on with it then, he thought firmly. If Sherlock had deduced any of John’s moment of insight (and wasn’t he just racking those up today), he was ignoring it in favour of sulking, so John allowed himself the barest pause to shore up his stern expression and then determinedly carried on.

“Right,” he said. “You know what to do. Trousers and pants down, and over my knee.”

Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him, and John had a clear impression of the sudden, quick series of expressions that flashed across his face. Either Sherlock was intentionally telegraphing his feelings, or John really was getting better at reading him – or perhaps both – but he realised that he could practically read Sherlock’s intentions in his eyes, as he passed lightning swift through _indecision_ - _calculation_ - _determination_.

Dismayed, John just had time to think, _damn it, he’s still not finished_ , before Sherlock’s sullen pout turned conspicuously haughty, and he looked down his nose at John in obvious and deliberate disdain.

“Why say ‘you know what to do’ and then follow it up by telling me what to do anyway?” he asked scornfully. “Honestly, John, it’s completely redundant.”

Well, okay then. Apparently Sherlock hadn’t been able to resist that last little push – and this one really was outright provocation, not even complaining or protesting but sheer, smart-mouthed backtalk. A bit more than just not being subtle now, John thought ruefully. Really, Sherlock couldn’t have been any more obvious if he’d tried.

And he had most definitely crossed the ‘one more word’ line. Most definitely, very deliberately, and knowing exactly what the consequences would be.

Damn it.

John did understand, logically, what Sherlock was doing – or at least he was pretty damn sure he did. Sherlock was feeling deeply insecure, and he was trying to reassure himself the best way he knew how, by testing John’s commitment and resolve and making sure that the arrangement he was coming to depend on – and Sherlock _was_ coming to depend on it, John was sure of it – was still in place. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust John; he’d said that he did and John believed him. It was just that he was scared, even if he’d never admit it, and he was trying to make sure that nothing had changed, and John _did_ understand.

Understanding, however, didn’t mean that he liked it. If he’d had his way, he’d have much preferred to be gentle, rather than having to come down on Sherlock like a ton of bricks. He wanted to be able to just pull Sherlock into his arms, and hold him and cuddle him and reassure him openly. He wanted to be able to tell him that it was okay, and that he didn’t have to be afraid, because nothing _had_ changed and John really, truly wasn’t going anywhere.

And he really _didn’t_ want to have to hand out yet more extra punishment, especially when he knew this spanking was going to be hard enough on Sherlock as it was. Sherlock might have used it as a button to push, but John was pretty sure that his claim of being in a fragile state was much closer to the truth than either of them would like. He didn’t relish the idea of even dealing out an extra six, let alone the twelve that Sherlock had just pushed the tally up to.

However, the fact that he didn’t want to do it wasn’t going to stop him from doing it. This wasn’t about what he wanted, it was about what Sherlock needed, and Sherlock was making it all too clear that what he needed right now wasn’t gentle words or a consoling cuddle. Once the punishment was over, John was certain that Sherlock would gladly accept both (or at least he certainly hoped so, because cuddle time wasn’t negotiable and John wouldn’t be taking no for an answer). But for right now, Sherlock was sending a message that was obvious even to someone who wasn’t a deductive genius: he needed John to be stern, to lay down the law, and above all to keep his word.

And that was fine. If that was what Sherlock needed from him, it was fine. John might not enjoy doing it, but he could – and he would – do it.

Now he just needed to prove that to Sherlock.

Resolved, John countered Sherlock’s artfully aloof gaze with a hard, perfectly even stare.

“That’s twelve,” he said, his tone steady but carrying an audible note of grim promise. “And I told you, if you keep pushing me, we’ll keep counting up from there. It’s your choice, Sherlock. The next number’s eighteen.”

And if he had to do it he’d practically be spanking Sherlock twice over. John refused to show his dismay at the prospect, concentrating instead on radiating unflinching conviction as he paused for a moment to let the number sink in. Sherlock, likewise, was refusing to look discomforted, but John wasn’t fooled; Sherlock wouldn’t like the idea of that much punishment any more than he did.

Whether Sherlock was finally finished with his testing was another question entirely, though. John hoped – really, really hoped – that he was. But if he wasn’t, then John was quite prepared to follow through, and what was more to keep right on following through until Sherlock decided that he’d had enough.

And perhaps Sherlock saw it, because after a brief, searching pause in which John could practically feel himself being deduced, the haughty expression abruptly slid off his face like a mask being pulled away – which was, John thought, probably a fairly accurate description of what had happened. The look that replaced it was wide-eyed, imploring and not a little forlorn – and entirely familiar.

_Please don’t spank me_ , John thought, registering the mute appeal in Sherlock’s wide, worried eyes. They’d come full circle, then.

He thought that was probably a good sign, but he didn’t dare allow himself to be too relieved, not this time. Instead, he doggedly pressed the point, making sure that his tone was suitably forbidding as he asked, grimly, “Do you want to try for it?”

_Because I’ll do it_ , was the unspoken postscript, and he knew Sherlock would be able to read it.

Apparently, Sherlock did read it – and he didn’t want to try for it. He shook his head anxiously, his curls bouncing with the motion.

Definitely a good sign, John thought. He still didn’t let his guard down, though.

“Good,” he said crisply. “In that case, trousers and pants down, and over my knee. Right now, Sherlock.”

The instruction couldn’t possibly have come as any kind of surprise, even to someone who wasn’t a deductive genius, but Sherlock still somehow managed to look even more mournful on hearing it. Despite his tragic expression, though, his hands had already gone obediently to the waistband of his trousers, long fingers quickly unbuttoning and unzipping them.

Thank Christ for that, John thought, carefully keeping it from his face but allowing himself – tentatively – to indulge in just the smallest measure of relief.

Relief that he most assuredly _did not show_. He watched, every inch the stern disciplinarian, as Sherlock shoved his trousers off over his hips and promptly jackknifed over after them to unlace his shoes. Within moments, he had neatly divested himself of shoes, socks, the puddle of suit fabric that his trousers had become, and finally his pants, which he hastily yanked down, stepped out of and dropped on top of the pile.

John made no comment on the fact that Sherlock had, again, preferred to take it all off rather than just adjusting clothing out of the way. Down or off made no difference with respect to access to the target area, so if Sherlock was more comfortable with off, then that was fine with John. And it was especially fine right now, since he was just bloody grateful that Sherlock was actually, finally cooperating. And cooperating at speed, no less; he hadn’t even paused to give John a pleading look in between removing layers.

But then, Sherlock definitely hadn’t seemed keen to earn himself any more extra punishment than he already had, not that John blamed him one bit. Perhaps he thought he’d already used up his pleading look quota for the moment.

Or perhaps he was just saving it, John amended, as Sherlock straightened up – rather more slowly than he’d bent over – and _then_ out came the pleading look.

And what a pleading look it was. Wide grey eyes locked onto John like a pair of beseeching lasers, as Sherlock silently, but very, very obviously, begged him for mercy.

John was getting quite used to Sherlock’s tendency towards the dramatic when he was being punished (and when he wasn’t being punished, for that matter) but this was impressive even for him. He looked utterly, tragically forlorn, and openly imploring, and John couldn’t deny that it did tug at his heartstrings – after all, it wasn’t as though he _enjoyed_ making Sherlock unhappy. What it wasn’t going to do, however, was have any effect at all on his actions.

And Sherlock knew that. John knew he knew that – or at least he bloody well ought to. Their arrangement may not have been in place for all that long, but they’d done this enough times now for Sherlock to be quite familiar with it, and a reprieve at this stage of the proceedings simply didn’t happen. John didn’t mind Sherlock trying it on to reassure himself of John’s intentions, or even just for the sake of drama, if it made him feel better. But the idea that he would actually decide that Sherlock was due a punishment, go through all the pre-punishment ritual, tell Sherlock to undress, and then after all that, suddenly change his mind and say, ‘On second thought, forget it, I’m not going to spank you after all’, was more than a bit ridiculous.

And that, John thought, was probably exactly what Sherlock wanted confirmation of.

Ridiculous – yes. Yes, it was. But given the effort Sherlock had just put into determinedly and systematically testing John for weaknesses, it was entirely likely that this was just one more item on his checklist, one more box to be ticked off to reassure himself that everything was indeed the same as it had been. Could he, in the end, still trust that John wouldn’t back down at the very last minute if Sherlock only looked tragic and pitiful enough?

Yes. Yes, in fact he could.

John proceeded to prove it by patting his knee firmly and putting on his sternest Captain Watson expression. “Over,” he said – or barked, really, the military manner carrying over into his voice as well. “Now.”

Apparently he’d been convincing. In yet another act of impressive presto chango, Sherlock dropped the beseeching look just as swiftly as he’d dropped the haughty one – this time revealing what John thought was a much more genuine expression of apprehension mingled with relief – and scrambled up onto the bed.

He didn’t do anything quite as dramatic as throw himself over John’s lap, but he definitely got down there without any dawdling, lowering his body swiftly across John’s thighs into the expected bottom up position. And he still somehow managed to look graceful while he did it. John would never understand how he pulled that off.

There was the usual brief interval of wriggling while Sherlock shifted himself into place, followed by a quick snatch and grab of a pillow from the head of the bed, which Sherlock wasted no time in hugging close and burying his face in. And then he went still just as abruptly as he’d started moving, freezing in place as if someone had just flicked a switch on him.

“I’m ready,” a muffled voice informed John, rather forlornly, from the depths of the pillow.

John was more than a little tempted to offer a few words of comfort, because Sherlock sounding so small and miserable _always_ called out to his protective side, but he quickly decided against it. As far as reassurance went, right now Sherlock seemed to be responding much better to John being stern with him, and John wasn’t about to argue with what worked. Besides, there would be plenty of time for cuddling and comfort after the punishment was over. For now, John thought they’d both be much better off just getting on with it at last.

Of course, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t offer anything at all in the way of consolation. He folded the tail of Sherlock’s shirt up out of the way, noting in passing that the vivid colour from the earlier punishment had faded almost without trace, leaving behind only a faint hint of pink. Good; John knew he hadn’t been severe, but he was still glad to see he hadn’t left any marks. He’d spank Sherlock over existing bruises if he had to – he’d done it before, after all – but he much preferred not to.

Sherlock squirmed minutely as his bottom was bared, and John placed his hand in the small of Sherlock’s back, letting it rest there for a moment before giving him a quick, encouraging rub. Sherlock didn’t relax – or even move this time – but he did release a soft breath into his pillow, and John hoped it meant he’d found the contact reassuring.

But now – as much as John would rather not – it was time to reassure him in an entirely different way. He reached back for the hairbrush with his other hand, then took a moment to make sure that he was suitably steeled for what was to come. This wasn’t going to be fun for either of them, but it was his job to make sure it was seen through to the end.

“Right,” he said firmly, once he was certain that he was securely locked into the disciplinarian state of mind. “Sherlock, do you understand why you’re being punished?”

The expected opening question, and for good reason. Knowing Sherlock as he did, John was all too aware of the possibility of misunderstandings, and of the need to make sure that Sherlock knew exactly what every punishment was for. It seemed especially important on this occasion, because John wanted to be absolutely certain that Sherlock understood that the punishment was for the incident with the crane and only the incident with the crane, and had nothing to do with the whole misbehaving-to-get-cuddle-time debacle.

Sherlock sighed audibly into the pillow – he never enjoyed John’s question and answer sessions, for all that he accepted the necessity of them – but supplied a dutiful, if muffled, answer. “Yes.”

“Good,” John said. “Tell me, then. And take your face out of the pillow, please.”

John had actually, he thought, become quite proficient in understanding the unique language that was Sherlock-through-a-pillow, but when there had to be actual conversation it really was easier without the muffling effect. Besides, it was a familiar instruction, and with Sherlock needing reassurance John thought it would be best to stick to the routine.

It earned him another sigh, although he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was protesting the separation from his pillow or the tediousness of having to elaborate. It was quite likely both, even though Sherlock knew full well that John would never just accept ‘yes’ as an answer without any further detail.

He did lift his face out of the pillow, though, keeping it bowed but no longer buried. “I took an unnecessary risk,” he replied in a low voice.

It was a rote answer, but John was relieved to hear that they were at least on the same page regarding the reason for the punishment. “And what was that?” he prompted, knowing Sherlock would expect it.

“I climbed up a crane,” Sherlock said, with another sigh. A beat, and then he added, “Without any safety gear.”

“Yes, you did,” John agreed. “What was that unnecessary?”

“Because I could have told Lestrade what I needed to do, and he could have secured the scene until we could do it safely.”

Sherlock’s reply had an air of recitation to it – understandable, since he was simply paraphrasing John’s lecture from earlier. That was fine by John, though. Sherlock was still saying what he wanted to hear, and if he could remember John’s lecture well enough to paraphrase it, then that at least meant he hadn’t deleted it yet. Perhaps some of it might even stick.

“Very true,” he confirmed, sternly approving. “And why was it wrong?”

“Because it was dangerous and I could have been killed.”

That, too, had been recited – almost chanted, in fact – but again, John could live with that. They both already knew that Sherlock had considerably less concern for his safety than John did; that was, after all, the whole bloody reason they were doing this in the first place. John just wanted it to be clear that that was why he was doing it, because he was concerned for Sherlock’s safety. They both knew that, too, of course, but he still thought it was important to keep reinforcing it.

And now to do some more reinforcing. “Yes, it was,” he said. “And yes, you could. I’ve told you, Sherlock, I’m not having that. I understand that your work is sometimes dangerous and that sometimes there’ll be risk involved. But I’m not having you taking risks that could get you killed when there’s no need for it. Necessary risks are one thing. Unnecessary risks will get you punished, _every single time_.”

He put heavy emphasis on the last three words, and then paused weightily, wanting to drive the point home. “Do you understand me?”

Sherlock shifted a little over his lap, squirming as if he couldn’t quite help himself, and John got the strong impression that he’d have liked very much to bury his face in the pillow again. He settled for bowing his head just a little bit more, replying in a voice that was barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

“Good,” John said, and then added, sternly and pointedly, “And who makes the call about whether a risk is or isn’t unnecessary?”

Despite his thoughts just moments ago about sticking to the routine, that wasn’t a question he usually asked. The point certainly came up, but it was generally presented as a statement, a reminder to Sherlock about the agreement they’d made, that John was the one who could make the more reasonable calls about safety and risks. John wasn’t even sure why he had posed it as a question this time, only that he thought Sherlock could do with reminding, and that it might – unusual or no – be reassuring for him to have to participate in it.

And Sherlock certainly seemed affected, although John couldn’t be sure whether it was in the way that he hoped. He heard Sherlock suck in his breath, and there was a pause of several long seconds before he answered, his voice barely audible now.

“You do,” he said – and then he did bury his face back in the pillow, dropping it abruptly down as if he’d simply reached his limit of open air conversation.

John let it go. He didn’t actually have any more questions to ask Sherlock anyway, and if he needed the comfort of his pillow then John was happy to let him have it. He’d got his answers, and he just hoped that supplying them had been a net positive for Sherlock, no matter how disagreeable he might find it at the time.

“That’s right, I do,” he replied, not missing a beat. “Because that’s what we agreed. Safety is _my_ call, not yours, and you’d better believe I take that seriously. If you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe, then I’ll do it for you.”

That took them back to the familiar again; it had become a catchphrase that John knew Sherlock found comforting to hear, even when it came with accompanying discomfort on his bottom. In fact, if anything, John suspected that the accompanying discomfort actually worked to prove his point: not only did he want Sherlock to be safe, but he was prepared to do something about it.

And Sherlock wasn’t the only one who found the words comforting, either: John did too, even when he was fully focused on being the disciplinarian. It was, he thought, a bit like reaffirming a vow, a reminder to them both that he would look after Sherlock even if Sherlock refused to look after himself. He might not enjoy having to hand out punishment, but he could hardly deny that he liked – very much indeed – being the one who got to do the looking after.

Sherlock didn’t reply, not that John had actually expected him to. Sherlock had made it quite clear with his retreat back into his pillow that he’d like his part of the conversation to be over, thank you very much. He did, however, relax just a little, some small measure of tension easing out of him with another soft huff of breath. Unfortunately it wasn’t going to last long, but John was glad to see it, even so.

He was less glad about what would come next, although he certainly wasn’t wavering in his commitment to it. The preliminary discussion (such as it was) was over with, and John was satisfied that there was no confusion and that Sherlock did indeed understand why he was being punished. And that meant it was time to get down to business.

Steeling himself, he pressed down a little more firmly on Sherlock’s back, feeling a twinge of regret – quickly squelched – as Sherlock instantly tensed again under his hand, obviously knowing what was coming.

John gave him the expected warning anyway, not wanting to take him by surprise. “Right, then,” he said firmly. “Now that’s understood, let’s get this over with.”

He raised the hairbrush, and Sherlock tensed even more as he felt the movement, clutching his pillow, crossing his feet together tightly at the ankles and looking almost as though he was trying to lock himself in place. John didn’t believe for a moment that it would last, but if Sherlock wanted to try, John wasn’t about to try to stop him.

He gave Sherlock a moment to finish bracing himself, and then – once he was quite sure Sherlock was about as braced as he was ever going to be – he brought the hairbrush down with a smart crack, planting the first smack dead centre on the right side of Sherlock’s bottom.

He hadn’t struck hard – he was aiming for sting rather than real force – but two spankings in two days (and one of them just hours ago) would understandably have left Sherlock feeling tender, even if there wasn’t a mark on him. Not to mention, Sherlock’s hairbrush was good quality and bloody solid. John didn’t doubt that it _had_ stung, and he wasn’t surprised at all that the smack made Sherlock jump.

He _was_ surprised, however, when Sherlock followed it up by whining loudly into his pillow and letting out an audible, very plaintive sounding, “Ow!”

It took John a moment to realise the significance of it, but when he did, his eyebrows practically rose into his hairline. Ow? Sherlock had actually said ow? Bloody hell, that was a first!

It was another test, of course. It had to be; John knew Sherlock too well to believe otherwise. He’d seen for himself the sheer amount of effort Sherlock put into taking his punishments stoically. For Christ’s sake, he didn’t like to make any noise at all if he could help it, and what noise he couldn’t help making was still kept as quiet as he could manage to keep it, even when he was completely overwrought. An actual verbal complaint – and after only one smack, no less – was a major departure from the norm.

And given the very determined battery of tests Sherlock had just subjected him to before they even got started, John thought his conclusion that this was merely more of the same was both logical and entirely obvious.

He did, however, take just a second to wonder if perhaps it was a test in more ways than _just_ the obvious. Because Sherlock might try doggedly to remain stoic during punishments, but John had, correspondingly, told him over and over again that he didn’t have to keep quiet if he didn’t want to. And he had even noticed that Sherlock had recently seemed to be stifling himself just a little bit less than he had the first few times, that he had seemed just a little more willing to let himself make a bit of noise when he got sore enough. The change hadn’t been dramatic, but even so, John had noticed it.

And now it made him wonder if perhaps this little experiment was in fact a two for one deal, and that perhaps Sherlock was not only testing John’s resolve, but also checking whether it really _was_ all right for him to make a bit more of a fuss during a spanking. It would, John thought, be just like Sherlock to be that efficient about it.

Well, if he was doing that, then that was fine. John knew exactly what his correct response should be for both tests, if indeed there were two of them going on. Obviously he needed to demonstrate that one, his resolve was still quite intact, and two, Sherlock could indeed make as much of a fuss as he liked and it wouldn’t change anything.

And so, he proceeded to answer Sherlock’s complaint in a way that handily did both: he ignored it completely. He raised the hairbrush again and planted a second smack – no lighter than the first – onto the matching spot on the other side, and then followed that one up with four more in quick succession, two to the crest of each upturned cheek.

Sherlock’s plaintive ‘ow’ wasn’t repeated, which only added weight to John’s theory that it had been a test (or perhaps tests, plural) in the first place. He did flinch with every smack, however, gasping softly into his pillow each time the hairbrush came down. His ankles stayed locked together – Sherlock’s anti-kicking precaution – but his toes had already curled up tightly in reaction.

John ignored all of that too, ruthlessly forcing down the instinctive sympathy that wanted to surface. He’d started the spanking – bloody _finally_ – and now it was time to break out the scolding that went along with it.

“We have _talked_ … _before_ ,” he began sternly, “about you taking _unnecessary_ … _risks_.”

The scolding itself was never quite the same, of course, but the general pattern was: each emphasised word came with a smart crack of the hairbrush across Sherlock’s bottom. For the moment, John was still aiming mostly for the centre, painting a band of overlapping pink ovals across the middle of both cheeks. That area wasn’t quite as sensitive as the spots lower down, but he had no doubt that Sherlock was feeling it: both the deepening flush on his skin and Sherlock’s pained little jumps and gasps bore smarting testimony to the sting.

John kept right on determinedly ignoring the unhappy reactions, concentrating instead on how best to make his points with both hairbrush and words. “You could have been _killed_ today,” he scolded. “All because you _didn’t_ … _think_ … about your _safety_.”

He bloody could have been, too. One bad step, that’s all it would have taken. One bad step, one unexpected spot of grease, one badly-timed lapse of concentration and Sherlock could easily have fallen to his death. For Christ’s sake, they’d been there investigating the death of a man who had died in exactly that way; that was more than proof enough of how easily it could have happened.

The memory of it – the remembered bloody _terror_ he’d felt – made it that much easier for John to harden his heart to Sherlock’s obvious discomfort, refusing to let himself relent as Sherlock flinched and gasped and began to squirm as the smacks fell. He’d much, much, _much_ rather Sherlock have a sore bottom for a day or two than the horrifying alternative.

And before they were finished here, he was going to make sure that was very, very clear indeed to Sherlock Holmes.

“There was _no_ … _good_ … _reason_ ,” he went on, “to climb up that crane without taking the _proper_ … _safety_ … _precautions_.”

Six that time, the smacks still concentrated mostly across the middle of Sherlock’s bottom. The band of pink was deepening in colour, and while none of the individual smacks were particularly hard, Sherlock was obviously starting to experience the cumulative effect. He still hadn’t yelped again – just in case John had been harbouring any doubts that his initial ‘ow’ hadn’t been entirely calculated – but every smack elicited a sharp intake of breath, audible even through Sherlock’s tightly clutched pillow. He hadn’t started to kick yet either, although John was sure it was coming, but he had started to wriggle, shifting his hips from side to side in tiny, aborted movements. No question about it: the hairbrush stung and Sherlock was not enjoying it.

Well, good, John thought, grimly squashing any hint of remorse. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. It was supposed to teach him a well-deserved bloody lesson, and John fully intended to make sure that it did exactly that.

He raised the hairbrush again, eyeing his target as he planned the next offensive.

“You,” he told Sherlock forbiddingly, “just _didn’t_ … _want_ … to _wait_.”

He made the last smack of those three deliberately sharper, because really it _could_ have all bloody well been prevented if Sherlock had just been willing to wait, even just long enough to tell John what he was planning on doing. But no, he just had to charge off without a word to anyone and climb up a bloody crane. It was a good reminder to John of exactly why Sherlock was so deserving of a sore bottom.

Sherlock jumped hard at the sharper smack, his feet jerking apart and then hastily crossing again, the other way around this time. Given Sherlock’s propensity for kicking once a spanking got underway, John didn’t really expect the ankles-locked-together thing to last much longer.

But that was fine. He’d reassure Sherlock about the kicking if he thought it was needed – and remind him that it was also okay if he wanted to make some noise, too, although even after that experimental ‘ow’ John had no idea if Sherlock would take him up on it. For now, though, they still had a long way to go.

“I understand that your work comes with some risks,” he said, raising the hairbrush again. “But I’m _not_ … going to let you take _risks_ … that are _totally_ … _unnecessary_.”

Again, each emphasised word came with another stinging crack of the hairbrush, although this time John aimed them a little lower. He wasn’t quite on the sensitive sit spots yet, but he was working his way down to them, extending the ribbon of smarting pink to cover more territory.

Sherlock had his face so tightly pressed into his pillow that – as usual – John had no idea how he was even managing to breathe, let alone gasp. Somehow he was managing it, though, because he responded to the four new smacks with a series of flinches and gulping, uneven breaths. His feet had started to twitch upwards, his toes curling and uncurling, even though he still had his ankles determinedly locked together. Apparently he was trying to hold out to the bitter end, or at least until he’d had enough of playing the stoic.

John raised his hand again, and Sherlock flinched in anticipation, trying to hug his pillow even tighter. If John hadn’t been so deeply into his disciplinarian mindset, the sight would have seriously tugged at his heartstrings (and even as it was, it still tugged at them a bit). However, he refused – _refused_ – to let himself waver.

Instead, he channelled the feeling into his next line of scolding, meaning it with every fibre. “I do _not_ … want to see you _hurt_ … or _killed_ … because you took _chances_ … that you _didn’t_ … _need_ to.”

Another six smacks accompanied the emphatic words, a little lower down again on Sherlock’s bottom, and once again John made the final one especially sharp, wanting to make a very strong point about _just how much_ he didn’t want to see Sherlock hurt or God-forbid-killed through his reckless disregard for his own safety.

Apparently he made his point quite effectively indeed, because Sherlock – who had begun to squirm with increasing energy during the set of six, panting raggedly into his pillow – greeted that last one with a plaintive whine of protest, and a hard kick against the bed of both suddenly uncrossed feet.

Well, John thought, it was always going to happen.

He felt that threatening tug at his heartstrings again – because he really didn’t like seeing Sherlock distressed, no matter how much he might deserve the discipline – but he firmly clamped down on it. He’d made his point; good. Onto the next point, then.

“You _will_ … _not_ … _do it_ ,” he told Sherlock. And all right, that was much less a point than a flat command, but his tone – and the accompanying smacks of the hairbrush – left absolutely no room for argument, or for any doubts about his sincerity.

“And if you _do_ ,” he went on, no less sincerely, “then you will be _spanked_. Just like _this_.”

All six of those went lower still, onto the sensitive sit spot areas now, and Sherlock made his unhappiness about this new target quite plain. He made a muffled ‘Mfff!’ noise with the first – almost but not quite a yelp – and proceeded to wriggle his way through the subsequent five, twisting his hips and kicking his feet against the bed with increasing abandon.

In that telling way he had, though, he never once squirmed enough to actually shift himself out of position – not even close, really; even when he tossed his hips all he did was bounce from side to side a bit while still keeping himself mostly centred on John’s lap. John wasn’t even really holding him down – his hand on Sherlock’s back was for stability and support, but there was no real restraint there. If Sherlock had wanted to buck himself off John’s lap, he’d have been able to do it easily. But he didn’t; he never did.

Telling indeed, John thought.

Sherlock didn’t seem to be in need of reassurance about the kicking, either, not with the enthusiasm he was putting into drumming his feet on the bed – although that had subsided into scrabbling at the duvet with his toes now instead, as the worst of the sting passed. Still, John thought it couldn’t hurt to provide a bit more reassurance, just in case.

“You can kick as much as you like,” he said, dropping just a little of the sternness out of his tone. “And if you want to make some noise, that’s okay too. You don’t have to be quiet if you don’t want to be.” A pause, and then he gave Sherlock’s back a very brief rub, asking, “Okay?”

Sherlock’s face remained firmly glued to the pillow, but there was a jerk of his head that was probably a nod, and a muffled sound that John was pretty sure was something in the affirmative. It would do, he thought. Sherlock might or might not take him up on the noise – already had taken him up on the kicking – but the important thing was that he knew he could, that he knew John didn’t expect him to take his punishment in stoic silence. If he wanted to do that, that was fine too; it was up to him – so long as he knew he didn’t _have_ to.

But with that confirmed on both sides, it was time to get back to it. John wasn’t nearly finished yet, but the sooner he got on with it, the sooner he would be.

All right then. He’d laid out in stinging detail exactly what Sherlock had done wrong, so now it was time to move on to what he could do _right_. If he was going to reinforce the mistakes Sherlock had made, it seemed only sensible to reinforce what John wanted him to do instead next time, too.

He pressed down a little more firmly on Sherlock’s back, warning, and felt him tense immediately.

“And since you can’t seem to tell whether a risk is necessary or not,” John began, raising the hairbrush once more, “we’ve _agreed_ … that it’s _my_ … _call_.”

The three accompanying smacks went onto Sherlock’s sit spots again, where the skin was already flushing a vivid rose colour. John wasn’t actually spanking hard – Sherlock’s hairbrush was far too solid to spank _hard_ ; if John hit him with anything like his full strength Sherlock would be black and blue by the end – but every smack was sharp and Sherlock obviously felt them. The first one pulled another smothered whine from him, and he was squirming in earnest again at the second, scratching at the duvet with his toes as if he was trying to dig right through it. The third, while it was no harder than the previous two, was greeted by an audible yelp.

John barely paused before starting to lecture again, wanting now just to push through and get the rest of it over with. Yes, he could harden his heart to Sherlock’s distress – was doing just that, in fact – but he wasn’t a bloody machine and it only went so far. The sooner they got to cuddle time, the happier he’d be.

“If you think you need to do something that will be dangerous,” he went on, “then you will _tell_ … _me_ … _first_ and you will _let_ … _me_ … _decide_.”

He wasn’t spanking Sherlock’s sit spots any more, but his new target wasn’t going to make Sherlock any happier: all six of those went onto the very tops of Sherlock’s thighs, three to each side. They still weren’t hard – and if anything John had gone a bit lighter because the skin there was so sensitive – but even so, he knew they would bloody well sting.

And they clearly did, if Sherlock’s reactions were any indication. He was writhing again from the first smack, gasping into his pillow and kicking first one foot and then the other against the bed in frantic, staccato bursts of motion. By the time the sixth had landed, his breathing had started to audibly hitch.

Gritting his teeth against the pangs of sympathy that really, really wanted his attention, John ploughed grimly ahead. “And if I say that it’s too dangerous to do it the way you want, then you _will_ … _not_ … _do it_ and we will _find_ … _another_ … _way_.”

Following his established pattern, those six went a little lower again, another three applied to the back of each thigh. Sherlock had probably known it was coming – he’d said more than once that John spanked ‘predictably’ – but if he had, it didn’t seem to help. He reacted exactly the way he had to the previous six, only more so. John was pretty sure he’d made the whole mattress bounce once or twice, he was kicking it so hard.

But they were almost there now, thank Christ. Time to hammer the last few points home.

Not on Sherlock’s thighs, though, John decided in a rush. He’d had enough there. Back to his bottom, where it was sensitive but also better padded. Sherlock’s sit spots were already glowing like a neon pink sunset, so even light smacks to those areas would be very keenly felt.

Resolved, he raised the hairbrush again, wincing a little in spite of himself when Sherlock whined in protest at the movement. It didn’t come through in his voice, though; he made very sure of that.

“And if you won’t do this out of respect for your own safety,” he said, sounding every bit as stern as he had at the beginning, “then you will do it because _I_ … _said_ … _so_.”

Three to Sherlock’s sit spots, to go with the all too familiar words. ‘Because I said so’ might seem like a ridiculous argument to use with an adult, but compared to getting Sherlock to actually draw the line between necessary risk and completely unnecessary, you-must-be-mad-to-even-consider-it risk, the simple fact was that ‘because I said so’ worked better.

Once again, the change in target didn’t make Sherlock any happier. He jerked as if he’d been shocked, almost bouncing over John’s lap, and then he yelped so pitifully that it made John wince again in pained sympathy.

He forced himself to ignore it, however – willpower, John, willpower – and doggedly kept going.

“And if you don’t,” he went on, “then you will be punished, _every_ … _single_ … _time_.”

The final words came, predictably, with a further three smacks, administered virtually on top of the last three. Sherlock flinched hard with each one, clutching his pillow desperately and squirming from side to side in obvious distress. He was back to scrabbling at the duvet with his feet, digging his toes into it so hard that John half expected the cover to rip, and his hitching breaths had given way to smothered, very forlorn sounding sniffles.

Hearing them, John found himself gritting his teeth again, unable to help himself. Dear God, but that sound could tug at his heartstrings like nothing else – and really, ‘tug’ was a vast understatement; it was more like ‘yank with all its bloody strength’. He bloody _hated_ hearing Sherlock sound like that.

But he could hardly cave in now – and if he did, it would only be for his benefit, not Sherlock’s. And Sherlock would know, because Sherlock always knew.

So: willpower, John, willpower.

Willpower it is, he thought, and forced his teeth to ungrit so that he could keep lecturing.

“Because if you don’t have the sense in your head to keep yourself safe, then I will do it _for_ you.”

The familiar catchphrase once again – although this time with a single sharp crack of the hairbrush to back it up. Sherlock bucked under it, sniffling even more piteously, but John still had one more thing to say – really, the most important thing of all.

“Your _life_ is not replaceable,” he told Sherlock, and this time the emphasis wasn’t just to give him something to time the spanking to; he bloody well meant it. “ _You_ are not replaceable.”

He gave Sherlock a moment to recover – because both of those smacks had gone on his sit spots again, and they had obviously bloody stung because Sherlock was kicking the bed again and wriggling like an eel – and then he finished up with a final, equally emphatic question.

“Is that understood?” he barked, and Sherlock’s curly head immediately jerked in a frantic nod, his face still firmly smashed into the pillow.

“Yes!” he gulped out, gasping and still sniffling hard. His shoulders heaved – once, twice – and then subsided into trembling stillness.

For a moment John was just surprised that Sherlock had actually answered him out loud, even if it was through the pillow. He’d have accepted a nod – would have accepted any signal that could be taken as an affirmative, really – and Sherlock knew it. Apparently he had _wanted_ to answer out loud.

But once he’d got over being surprised, John’s next emotion was frank dismay, because Sherlock was very obviously right on the verge of breaking down entirely – and John still had to give him the extra dozen that he’d managed to earn for himself.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He _really_ didn’t want to do it. However, he also knew very well that he had to. As he’d been thinking just moments ago, if he backed out now, it would only be for his sake, not for Sherlock’s. Sherlock was obviously unhappy and John didn’t doubt that he was damn sore, but he’d been careful about how hard he spanked and while Sherlock’s bottom might _look_ like a neon sunset, all that soreness was nothing more than surface sting. Another dozen on top would _hurt_ , certainly, but it wouldn’t do Sherlock any _harm_.

Not to mention, Sherlock had, after all, gone out of his bloody way to earn that extra dozen, and he’d known exactly what he was doing as he did it. It had been a test, another test, to see if John would promise him extra if he kept pushing for it – which he had, and so John had. But now there was a secondary test as well – to see if John would hold the line and follow through on his promise.

Which he would.

He would, no matter how much he’d rather not, because that was what Sherlock was counting on him to do.

And so John summoned all of his resolve, straightened his spine almost instinctively into a more military posture, and patted Sherlock’s back in brisk, not-quite-sympathetic acknowledgement.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said evenly. “In that case, we’re almost finished. You have twelve extra still to come, and then that’s the end of it.”

Sherlock stiffened, and John heard him suck in a sharp breath, as if in surprise. His head still didn’t budge out of his pillow, but he protested John’s announcement with a plaintive, snuffling whine of distress, and John would swear that it actually made something in his chest physically hurt to hear it.

But he refused to let himself bend, not even a little, reminding himself very sternly: _willpower, John_.

No one was ever going to say that John Watson lacked willpower, damn it.

It took effort, but he made sure that his tone remained entirely stern. “None of that,” he chided firmly. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you kept pushing me. I gave you plenty of chances.”

Without giving Sherlock the chance to reply – although John doubted that he would have in any case – he gave Sherlock’s back another quick pat, and then let his hand go firm in warning.

“I’ll make them quick,” he said, deciding abruptly. He might have doled out the smacks at a more measured pace, perhaps told Sherlock to think about why he was being punished while it was going on, but at this point just getting it over with seemed like the better option. Sherlock certainly deserved the punishment he was getting; there was no question about that. But after everything that had happened today, John thought that just a little bit of mercy wouldn’t go amiss, especially with the spanking all but finished. Sherlock was still receiving the promised consequences, and he _would_ get the full twelve, so it wasn’t as though John was actually giving up any ground.

Having hastily convinced himself, he added to Sherlock, “Just twelve more and then it’s all over. Take a deep breath and be brave.”

Sherlock sniffled again – and dear God, that sound was damn near enough to break John’s heart – but after a moment he did take the instructed deep breath, somehow managing to do it through the pillow (John had, in moments of whimsy, begun to suspect that Sherlock was actually immune to suffocation, like some kind of mutant superpower). John watched, hanging onto his stern front with mental teeth and toenails as Sherlock gulped in air and visibly braced himself, hugging his pillow in a virtual death grip and digging his toes hard into the duvet.

John braced himself in turn, urging himself silently and very sternly to just get it over with. Resolved, he raised the hairbrush again – feeling Sherlock tense even more as he felt the shift of John’s weight – and then let it fall with a sharp crack across the back of Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock jerked at the impact, but John had said that he would make them quick and he intended to do just that. The hairbrush rose and fell in a rapid but even rhythm, as John swiftly applied three smacks to the top of Sherlock’s left thigh, a matching three smacks to the right, and then the final six across the very bottom of his cheeks.

Those were, of course, the most sensitive areas, and Sherlock’s sit spots especially had been quite well spanked already. John still wasn’t spanking anything like hard, but it was clear that even moderate smacks stung enough to make Sherlock very unhappy indeed.

And with the end in sight, it seemed Sherlock had also decided to once more drop almost all restraint and just say bollocks to being stoic. He was writhing again from the first smack, tossing his hips and pounding the bed with both feet, and never mind just making the mattress bounce, John would swear he was kicking hard enough to shake the whole bedframe.

As the attentions of the hairbrush shifted back up to his bottom, he only got more energetic, and the final six smacks elicited gasps, hitching sniffles and a truly frantic level of wriggling. And not only that, but – much to John’s surprise – the very last three were met not just with whining or wordless yelps but with an increasingly tearful sounding series of, “Ow! Ow! _Ow_!”

And this time, John was pretty damn sure that Sherlock wasn’t just doing it as another test. Those yelps were heartfelt; the spanking hurt and Sherlock was letting him know about it, just as John had encouraged him to do.

He thought that was probably a good thing – no, scratch that, it _was_ a good thing – but he wasn’t about to waste time dwelling on his surprise, because thank Christ that was the end of it, and that meant that he could finally give Sherlock the cuddle he’d been longing to. Once they’d got started, the spanking itself hadn’t actually gone on all that long – but combined with everything that had come before, as far as John was concerned it had felt like a small eternity.

But it was cuddle time now, thank _Christ_ for that. Sighing in relief, John dropped the hairbrush gratefully onto the bed behind him and began to rub Sherlock’s back, his hands instinctively moving in soothing little circles as he tried to offer comfort.

“Okay,” he murmured, all sternness gone. “Okay, Sherlock, it’s okay now, it’s all over. All over now. All over and now it’s cuddle time whenever you’re ready.”

Sherlock was still snuffling into his pillow in a truly piteous fashion, which only made John want to comfort him even more. He would swear that miserable sound was on a direct line to his damn heartstrings; he simply could _not_ hear it and not want to cuddle Sherlock to within an inch of his life. And so he was even more relieved when the offer of cuddle time prompted immediate and vigorous nodding, even though Sherlock’s face stayed firmly buried.

That was all the confirmation John needed, and he hastily extracted himself from underneath Sherlock’s prone form, bracing himself with his arms and wriggling backwards on the bed until he could get his feet free. Sherlock had realised by now that John would move around him at such times, and while he did lift his hips a little to allow John to slide out, he made no attempt to actually change position himself, remaining sprawled along the length of the bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his pillow.

John was fine with him remaining where he was, but the pillow hugging would have to go: Sherlock had John to hug now, and as far as he was concerned he was a much better option for a cuddle. He slid down beside Sherlock, caught the edge of the pillowcase in one hand and began to gently tug on it, encouraging Sherlock with soft words all the while.

“Come on, you don’t need that,” he urged. “You’ve got me to hug now, so come out of there and let me give you a cuddle.”

With a cuddle now on offer and right there waiting for him, Sherlock seemed quite willing to exchange the pillow for John. He still didn’t lift his head, but he loosened his grip on the pillow enough to let John pull it away, and as soon as it was gone he immediately wriggled in under John’s outstretched arm, wedging himself tightly up against John’s side and – predictably – burying his face against John’s shoulder. His top arm snaked over John to hug him around the waist – he needed no prompting to do that, not anymore – and John gladly hugged him back, greatly relieved to finally be able to do it.

“That’s more like it,” he said, turning his head so that he was murmuring the words into Sherlock’s ear. “That’s much better, isn’t it? You just hold on to me and let me look after you. It’s cuddle time now, and I’ll cuddle you for as long as you want.”

And quite honestly, John hoped that was a good long time, because after all that, _he_ bloody well needed a cuddle too.

Sherlock’s response to the reassurance was another hitching sniffle and an attempt to snuggle even closer, no matter that he was already so close that he might as well have been melded to John’s side. He was still trembling hard, his shoulders twitching in little jerks and his breath coming in stuttering, uneven gulps that left John in no doubt about his distress. Those gulps weren’t quite at the point of being outright sobs, but they were damn close.

They were also damn near breaking John’s heart, although he had to admit it was a lot easier to listen to them now that he was allowed to actually offer some proper comfort. His hands had found their way automatically to their accepted cuddle time positions, and so John carded the fingers of one hand through Sherlock’s curls and began to gently rub his back with the other, stroking soothingly back and forth over Sherlock’s too-bony shoulder blades, trying to ease some of the stress out of quivering muscles.

“There, there,” he murmured, his head still ducked down close to Sherlock’s ear. “It’s all right now. It’s all over. All done, all finished, and now you can have a good long cuddle until you feel better. I’m right here to look after you.”

The words were delivered in a soft almost-croon – John’s cuddle time tone, low and warm and deliberately pitched to soothe. It was already familiar, a part of the ritual, although never done by rote: John’s desire to comfort Sherlock was entirely heartfelt. But as he had realised that Sherlock didn’t merely tolerate it, but actually liked and even needed that kind of reassurance, John had become much more confident about simply going with his instincts and doing what worked. Yes, he sounded like he was talking to a child, and no, he didn’t care. Sherlock liked it and John liked doing it, and really that was all that bloody well mattered.

And right now Sherlock was making it quite clear that he liked it by pressing himself as close to John as he could get, to the point where John doubted you could have slid a pin in between them. The hand that was around John’s middle was clinging tightly to a fold of his shirt, and not only that, but John suddenly realised that Sherlock had also managed to worm the other hand – the one that was trapped underneath him – into a position where he could hook his fingers into John’s belt, and so hold onto him with _both_ hands.

John felt his eyes sting sharply and hastily closed them, but holding back the tears didn’t take away the rush of feeling. Sherlock hadn’t done that before, but apparently this time he had wanted to hold onto John just that little bit more – or perhaps he’d even wanted to before, but the difference was that this time he’d allowed himself to do it. Either way, he might just as well have grabbed hold of John’s heartstrings and swung off them.

But much like listening to Sherlock’s tears, John found it was a lot easier to deal with bursts of emotion like that when he actually had Sherlock in his arms and could do something constructive about them. And for right now, his constructive outlet was going to be providing Sherlock with as much cuddling and comfort and consolation as he could possibly want, and perhaps some more besides.

“That’s my good Sherlock,” he said, and just let himself enjoy the possessive pronoun, because he was allowed to say that and anyway it was true; Sherlock _was_ good and he _was_ John’s good Sherlock. “You were so brave, you did really well. I’m so proud of you. And it’s all over now and all forgiven, and it’s cuddle time for as long as you want.”

He paused for a moment, feeling Sherlock trembling against him, very aware of Sherlock’s hands – both of them – holding onto him with fervent need. He thought again about what that need had pushed Sherlock to do, what lengths he’d been willing to go to just to get John’s affection, all because he didn’t believe that he could get it any other way.

All because John hadn’t thought to _tell_ him that he could get it any other way.

It was more than a bit tempting to fall back into berating himself for that, because honestly, he was still appalled at just how oblivious he’d been. But self-recrimination wasn’t comforting Sherlock, and that was where John’s focus needed to be right now – on Sherlock’s needs, not his own.

And anyway, they’d sorted it out now, he reminded himself firmly. No, before all this happened he hadn’t thought to tell Sherlock that he could have cuddles for the asking, and yes, that had been a bloody big mistake. But he had told him now, and they had an agreement and it was all sorted. And if he wanted to reassure Sherlock again that there were cuddles on tap whenever he wanted them, with no strings attached – well, there was nothing stopping him, was there?

No, there bloody well wasn’t. And what was more, since this was the first cuddle they’d had since they’d got it all sorted out, it would probably be a perfect time to do it.

John opened his eyes again, gazing fondly down at the top of Sherlock’s curly head – the closest he could get to looking him in the face, right now.

“And it’s cuddle time whenever you want, too,” he said, his voice still soft, but with an added note of gentle intensity. “Remember that? You don’t have to be punished first when you want this. You don’t have to pay a price for it. You don’t have to do anything to have this except let me know that you want it. All you have to do is tell me, that’s all, use your code, and you can have this whenever you want. No strings attached, just me giving you a cuddle because you want one. And that’s what we do from now on, right?”

John hadn’t actually expected a reply, even though he’d technically ended it on a question. In fact, he hadn’t expected much of a response at all, although he’d thought he might get some kind of wordless acknowledgement of what he’d said, perhaps a nod, or a nuzzle or an attempt to snuggle a bit closer. Things like that were Sherlock’s typical methods of communication until he’d calmed down enough to want to talk, and given the state he was in at the moment, John didn’t think he was nearly ready for talking just yet.

And as it turned out, he was right about that part: Sherlock didn’t talk, but John didn’t just get a nod or a nuzzle or a closer snuggle, either. Instead, there was a pause after he finished speaking, and he realised suddenly that Sherlock had gone quite still against him, or at least as still as he could go while he was still shaking with distress. And not only that, but he seemed almost to be trying to hold his breath, albeit without much success – his hitching gulps had become shallow little huffs instead, which really only differed by being somewhat quieter and more smothered. They certainly didn’t sound any less forlorn.

But John only had a moment to wonder about this before Sherlock’s vain attempt to compose himself – because that had to be what it was – abruptly and explosively gave way. Sherlock’s half-held breath erupted out of him in a hoarse, convulsive sob, and it was quickly followed by another, and then another, and all of a sudden John found himself dealing with a genuine storm of tears – and not just the little almost-sobs that meant Sherlock was upset but still somewhat in control of himself, but real, overwrought heaves.

It was, to say the least, not the reaction John had expected.

But surprise (or more accurately, stunned dismay) was instantly eclipsed by the desire to offer comfort, and John hastily tried to gather Sherlock even closer – not that it was really possible with Sherlock already attached to him like a limpet, but he tried anyway. Christ, but hearing Sherlock sobbing like that, he couldn’t have _not_ tried.

“Shhh, shhhh,” he heard himself murmuring, automatically – although he didn’t actually mean for Sherlock to be quiet, and he quickly corrected himself with what he said next. “That’s it, that’s right, you just cry it all out. That’s good, Sherlock, that’s good. That’s my good Sherlock. It’s okay, it’s all okay. I’m right here and I’ll look after you, you just hold onto me and let it all out.”

Sherlock’s weeping was forceful enough that at this point John suspected he actually didn’t have much choice but to let it all out, but he thought a bit of encouragement could hardly hurt. And on the occasions he’d seen Sherlock break down like this before (although admittedly that was only twice, not counting this one), Sherlock certainly hadn’t seemed to object to being cuddled and reassured until the storm had passed.

And he didn’t seem to be objecting this time, either – quite the opposite, he was holding onto John for all he was worth, muffling his sobs in John’s shoulder and clinging to him like a lifeline. Whatever else might be going on in his head, at least he wasn’t rejecting John’s offer of consolation.

Not that John would have let him get away with rejecting it in any case: they had an agreement, after all.

He kept it up, doing all of the usual things that seemed so right to do at such times: he held Sherlock close, he rubbed his back and stroked his hair, and all the while he talked, low and kind and soothing, carrying on a constant, gentle litany of reassurance and encouragement and praise.

There was, of course, nothing included in it that Sherlock hadn’t heard before, in fact there was probably nothing in it that Sherlock hadn’t heard at least a dozen times over. But it didn’t matter. Sherlock found it comforting, John knew that, and he would gladly repeat himself for as long as it took to give Sherlock what he needed.

As it was, Sherlock’s fit of tears was fierce but relatively brief, and it wasn’t long before his hard sobs tapered off, subsiding once more into shuddering gulps and sniffles. That took them mostly back to where they’d been, but this time John was doing his best to avoid setting off any more emotional land mines, and kept instead to the more familiar cuddle time sentiments: Sherlock was good, and he was brave, and he could cry as much as he needed to, and John was here and he would look after him and so it was okay, it was okay, everything was okay.

Again, the words were nothing new, but they had the desired effect, and little by little it _was_ okay. As John cuddled him close and murmured to him, Sherlock’s trembling eased off, muscles that had been rigid with distress slowly relaxing, and his hiccupping breaths quieted further into soft hitches, before gradually easing and evening out into a normal rhythm. And finally, there was no more shivering, and no more tears either, from what John could tell: there was just Sherlock, still burrowed firmly against John’s side, but quiet now and seemingly calm, his clutching grip (with both hands) loosened instead into a light, easy curl of his fingers around John’s shirt and belt.

The fact that Sherlock would do that – hold onto him for comfort, even after he’d calmed down enough not to really need it – had the same effect on John that it always did, that being a good, strong tug on his heartstrings. He had the distinct suspicion that it was always going to feel like that, no matter how many times Sherlock did it.

And the cuddle time litany having done its job, John had fallen silent too. But he couldn’t resist dropping a quick kiss to the top of Sherlock’s curly head, wanting just that little bit more closeness between them. Sherlock certainly didn’t seem to have any objections, since he responded to the touch with a contented sigh and a sleepy murmur, and then a soft nuzzle of his face against John’s shoulder.

The sleepy part didn’t surprise John in the least; he was fully expecting Sherlock to drop off for a nap, at least briefly. It had become a habit, and after working himself up into such a state, Sherlock had to be worn out, especially considering the day he’d had. John did suspect that they might need to talk, later – just to make sure that Sherlock really was all right, if nothing else – but it could wait. They weren’t going anywhere, after all (well, not unless a case happened to come along), and after everything that had happened, he’d rather just give Sherlock time to enjoy being cuddled.

He was just contemplating whether he ought to try to get Sherlock under the covers – because while John was warm enough, Sherlock was half naked and might well get chilled once he actually fell asleep – when Sherlock interrupted his musing, by shifting against him and rolling his face abruptly to the side.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words coming in a low, embarrassed rush. He sounded a bit hoarse, but the sleepiness seemed to have vanished from his voice with remarkable speed. “That was stupid.”

Surprised, John tried to peer down to see his face, but Sherlock was keeping his chin well tucked in, effectively turning his hair into a screen between them. Well, okay then. If he wasn’t ready to look at John – and he obviously wasn’t – then John wasn’t going to press him for it.

And he wasn’t going to pretend to misunderstand, either. He might not have been expecting it, but he knew very well what Sherlock was referring to, and apologising for.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied at once. “You were upset. You’re allowed to be upset, and there’s nothing stupid about it.”

Sherlock’s brief silence in return spoke dubious volumes. “The punishment was already over,” he finally pointed out, as if John might have forgotten that.

John hadn’t, of course, and anyway it didn’t bloody matter that Sherlock’s punishment had already been over. “There’s no rule that says you have to be getting punished to be upset,” he countered firmly – stating the obvious, he thought, but apparently it needed stating. “It wasn’t stupid at all, and you don’t need to apologise for it.”

He paused, and waited – but when Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to reply, John gave a rueful sigh and patted his back in consolation. “If anything I should be apologising for upsetting you,” he said, adding wryly, “Although I was actually trying to be reassuring.”

There was a longer silence after that, and John began to wonder if that was going to be the end of the conversation. But then Sherlock murmured, almost under his breath, “You were.”

Encouraged, John glanced down again, but Sherlock’s face was still neatly shielded by the barrier of his hair. Still not ready to look up, then. Well, that was fine. John wouldn’t push.

“Good,” he replied instead, meaning it wholeheartedly. “I’m glad.”

He deliberately kept it simple, not asking any questions. If Sherlock wanted to say more about it, then he would. And John would welcome it if he did, but his instincts were telling him that trying to force the issue wouldn’t be the right approach, not for this. Better to wait, to be patient and let Sherlock come to him, if he decided that he wanted to.

It seemed his instincts had it right, too. After a few more moments of hesitation, Sherlock did go on.

“I didn’t expect …” he began, and then stopped, the words trailing off awkwardly. A beat, and then he tried again. “I don’t know why I was so … affected.”

He sounded so ill at ease that John automatically went to reassure him. “It’s okay,” he started to say, soothingly – only to be swiftly interrupted as Sherlock, in one of his mercurial shifts of mood, brusquely cut him off.

“You don’t mind,” he bit out, his tone turned suddenly curt and almost accusing. “You don’t _mind_.”

He sucked in a sharp breath and fell silent again. His body had become a tense line against John’s side, and John had the impression that Sherlock had purposefully cut himself off before he could say anything else – as if, John thought, he’d already given away more than he was comfortable with.

Blinking – because that had been quite an abrupt mood swing, even for Sherlock – John waited a long beat, just to give Sherlock the option in case he did want to say more. But the silence stubbornly continued, and so very carefully – not wanting to push, but keen to reassure – John tried again.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, keeping his tone soft and intentionally mild. “I told you, you’re allowed to be upset. It’s fine.”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock gritted out, sounding exasperated. He shook his head hard, irritably, and then pulled his chin down even further, like a turtle trying to retract into its shell. He took another deep breath and held it, and for a brief moment John thought he was about to break down all over again, that he was holding his breath in an attempt to hold back threatening tears.

_And if he is, that’s fine_ , he thought, instantly readying himself to offer comfort again. _It’s fine and I’ll make sure he knows that it’s fine_ –

But then Sherlock breathed out in a slow, deliberate sigh, and some of the stiffness seemed to go out of him with it, the release of tension curling him back into John’s embrace. John automatically cuddled him closer, and Sherlock gave another, softer sigh, rubbing his cheek briefly against John’s chest.

When he spoke again, his tone was softer and a little uncertain, but steady.

“No,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean that. I meant you don’t mind –” He hesitated, and John got the feeling he was having to brace himself to continue, but after a moment he gamely did. “You don’t mind cuddling me,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “You don’t mind the idea of doing it – whenever. Just because I want it. And you’re prepared to do it just because I want it and you … don’t _mind_.”

_Oh_ , John thought in sudden comprehension, because all at once he understood, or at least he was pretty sure he did. Sherlock had said that he didn’t know why he’d been so affected – but then once he’d said it, he’d immediately thought better of it, because he’d realised (or perhaps just allowed himself to admit) that in fact he _did_ know why: it was because John didn’t _mind_.

Along with the understanding, John’s first instinct was, quite simply, to just hug Sherlock senseless. He had known, of course he had known, that his offer of cuddles on tap meant a lot to Sherlock – and that it had taken him entirely by surprise, too. Sherlock had seemed quite bewildered by the notion that John would be so willing to just give him affection, with no strings attached, whenever he wanted it. And his quiet gratitude after they’d agreed on a plan for doing just that had been … well, just about bloody heartbreaking in its sincerity, really.

But it seemed it meant even more to him than John had realised. And now that he _had_ realised, all he wanted to do was to hold Sherlock close and reassure him over and over and over again that he didn’t mind, he really, really didn’t, and what was more if he had his way then Sherlock would never go another day without being cuddled in his whole life.

However, he thought better of actually doing that, at least for the moment. He wanted to reassure Sherlock, absolutely, but what he didn’t want to do was to make what had obviously been a difficult confession even more difficult. And what he definitely didn’t want to do was to discourage Sherlock from saying any more – which, now that he’d started, he just might, _if_ he was given the space to do it.

With that in mind, John carefully limited himself – with what he thought was fairly heroic restraint – to smoothing a hand gently over Sherlock’s hair, and confirming in the same low, mild tone: “No. No, I don’t mind at all.” He made to stop himself there, but after a moment he couldn’t resist adding, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

He felt Sherlock nod, slowly, against his shoulder. “You really don’t mind,” he said, in a faintly wondering tone. “But I never even considered …”

His voice trailed off, and there was a long, thoughtful pause. John had the familiar feeling that Sherlock was silently debating with himself, carefully weighing up what he ought to say next – or if in fact he should say anything more at all.

He waited, hopeful, but still taking care not to push. Sherlock would talk in his own time or not at all, and all pushing would do was make him clam up, John was sure of it. His best bet to encourage Sherlock now was to be patient and to let him decide, in his own time, whether or not he felt comfortable enough to go on.

The silence stretched out, and John had begun to regretfully suspect that Sherlock had, in the end, decided on the option of not saying anything more at all – but then Sherlock sighed and ducked his head down a little further, and his fingers curled just a bit more tightly into his captured fold of John’s shirt.

“It’s been a hateful week,” he said tiredly, and then sighed again as if just saying the words had been a strain.

And quite possibly they had been, but John was still very glad that Sherlock had said them, because somehow this felt like air that needed to be cleared. They’d solved the actual problem (or at least they had a plan in place for solving it) and as far as John was concerned that was the most important thing, by a long way. But there was still the question of why, of what had been going on in Sherlock’s head to make him do what he’d done. They’d barely touched on that, apart from the very basic reason that he’d wanted more cuddle time and hadn’t known how else to get it, and John knew damn well that it would have been a lot more complex than that. This was _Sherlock_ they were talking about, after all. There was bloody well nothing about Sherlock that _wasn’t_ complex.

So: they could certainly get by without an in depth analysis, now that they had a solution in place, and John wasn’t about to force the issue if Sherlock was truly reluctant. But if Sherlock was willing, then it seemed to him that more understanding between them could only be a good thing, if for no other reason than to avoid anything like this happening again.

And it seemed Sherlock was willing – or at least he hadn’t closed the conversation down, which John thought had to be a good sign. And as for his response – well, it wasn’t like John couldn’t sympathise over it having been a hateful week. It bloody well had been.

He patted Sherlock’s back again, his palm cupping gently around one bony shoulder blade. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly – and, he hoped, encouragingly. “Yeah, I bet it was.”

He felt Sherlock nod, two quick downward twitches of his chin. “Hateful,” he repeated fervently. And then, more quietly but with no less feeling: “I was so angry with myself.”

Okay, John thought. That sounded promising. That sounded like the beginning of more. Now he’d just have to try to make sure that he balanced being receptive of the more with giving Sherlock the space to actually say it.

Very cautiously, since Sherlock didn’t seem to be continuing of his own accord, he asked, “Why were you angry?”

Rather to his surprise, it was as if his gentle question had suddenly opened the floodgates. Sherlock replied at once, as if all he’d been waiting for was John’s approval.

“I wanted it,” he said, low-voiced and vehement. “I kept wanting it and wanting it. And it started just a few days after the thing with the bus, after the punishment for that. We finished that hit and run case and I was tired and I was … distracted. I’d been distracted on the case and I didn’t understand why. It was like this itch under my skin, and then suddenly when we got home afterwards I realised that what I wanted was … just for you to hold me. I wanted what you gave me after a punishment; I wanted to crawl into your arms and just sleep like that. And I was …”

His voice trailed off again, and for a moment John could only blink in surprise. He’d been hoping for more, hoping that Sherlock might open up a little about what he’d been thinking, but this was honesty – and emotion – on a scale he hadn’t quite expected. This was – Christ, this was major.

And he didn’t think Sherlock was finished yet, either. He had left off speaking with an almost expectant air, and John had the strong impression that he was waiting – hoping – to be prompted to continue.

_He wants to say this_ , John thought, with sudden certainty. _It’s hard but he wants to say it. He just wants me to help him_.

And that was fine. That was more than fine. If Sherlock wanted his help, then John would be only too glad to provide it.

Carefully, in the same gentle tone, he asked, “What?”

Although he thought he could probably have answered that question himself, without even needing Sherlock’s input. What had Sherlock been? Christ, he must have been what anyone would have been in that situation, out of his depth in powerful and unfamiliar feelings: he’d been bloody _scared_ , and quite understandably so.

Not that John was expecting Sherlock to actually use that word, and sure enough he didn’t. Although what he did say was, coming from Sherlock, no less of a surprise.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said, and John blinked again. Sherlock, admitting he hadn’t known what to do? Bloody hell, major indeed.

But Sherlock was already going on, the words tumbling out in a way John had never heard from him before. Yes, Sherlock could rattle a speech off like a hail of verbal bullets when he wanted to, especially when it concerned his deductions, but this wasn’t like that, this wasn’t just Sherlock’s brain working at super high speed, wasn’t coming from impatience or a desire to show off. This was different. This was a confession – almost a purge.

“I thought if I just ignored it, it would go away,” Sherlock said, and John felt a sharp stab of pity, because God, Sherlock sounded so _confused_.

“I went to Bart’s so that I wouldn’t have to think about it,” Sherlock went on. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I couldn’t delete it, I couldn’t _unthink_ it. And I went to Bart’s again the next day and it was the same, and I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t sleep, and I was angry with myself for having so little control, for wanting something so silly and _banal_.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, sounding pained, then gave a soft, humourless chuckle.

“But it isn’t silly and banal,” he said, and now the words were low and rapid and almost choked. “That’s the thing, it isn’t; it’s _good_. It feels good and I can sleep and afterwards everything’s … better. Brighter. More. And it seemed so stupid that just getting a hug could make me feel like that, but it does and I couldn’t help wanting it, and I couldn’t make it stop and it was driving me half mad. And then –”

“What?” The prompt spilled out without even thinking this time. John could hardly believe what he was hearing, but Christ, he _needed_ to hear this.

Sherlock sighed again, hunching up a little more against John’s side.

“I was home the next day,” he said, his voice lowering even further. “You remember. I thought about going to Bart’s again but then I didn’t want to, it seemed as though it was only making it worse. And then you started having a go at me about not eating. And I hadn’t and I knew we had an agreement about it, and I knew you were going to want me to eat something, and I suddenly thought – if I put up a fight about it – if I kept arguing –”

Lightbulb moment, John thought, immediately understanding. Of course, and really it made perfect sense. Sherlock had desperately wanted a cuddle, and suddenly he had seen a way to get himself one, right there in front of him for the taking. Of course he’d jumped at the opportunity, of course he bloody had. Now that John knew how Sherlock had been feeling, it wasn’t surprising at all. In fact if anything was surprising, it was that Sherlock hadn’t thought to do it sooner.

“If you kept arguing, then I’d punish you,” he said quietly, completing Sherlock’s unfinished sentence. “And then give you a cuddle afterwards.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and then he made a despairing little sound that seemed to wrap straight around John’s heart and squeeze. “I felt mad doing it. I actually was hungry. I wouldn’t have minded eating. But all I could think was that if I argued and I kept arguing, eventually you’d stop trying to persuade me and just wallop me until I did as I was told. And you did, and it was just a couple of whacks and some corner time and then – then you –”

His chest aching with sympathy, John filled in the blank once more. “Then you got your cuddle.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded miserable. “And it was what I’d wanted so much, and I think I’d even been hoping that perhaps when I got it, it wouldn’t measure up. That I’d just built it up in my mind from stress over the case or something like that, and if I just got you to hold me for a while I’d realise that it wasn’t so important after all. And then I’d be fine and everything could go back to normal.”

John found he could imagine that all too easily. It seemed somehow so typically Sherlock, to think that his need for affection must be some kind of … malfunction. Just close the program and reboot the machine, and everything would start running smoothly again.

“But it didn’t work like that,” John prompted gently, because of course it bloody hadn’t. Sherlock’s brain wasn’t actually a hard drive, no matter how much he might like to pretend it was.

Sherlock shook his head briefly, his fingers clenching around the fold of John’s shirt.

“No,” he said disconsolately. “You hugged me afterwards and it was exactly what I’d wanted. And afterwards it was like the itch was gone, and I did feel fine, but not because being cuddled didn’t measure up, but because it _did_. And it was such a relief, but at the same time I realised that it was only going to be a matter of time before I wanted it again. And that was a problem, but then I thought there was a solution, because – if it had worked once –”

He broke off again, taking a deep breath. John was pretty sure he knew what had to be coming next, and really, it wasn’t like Sherlock’s reasoning wasn’t understandable, given what he’d thought he was working with. As far as he’d known, there hadn’t been any other way for him to get the affection that he wanted so much. As far as he’d known, that sort of attention came after punishment and only after punishment (and by God if John didn’t still want to kick himself, and hard, for letting Sherlock think that). But he could see all too easily where Sherlock’s train of thought had led, because if goading John into punishing him (and therefore cuddling him) had worked once, then there had been no reason for Sherlock to think that it wouldn’t work again, too.

He patted Sherlock’s back in encouragement, but stayed silent, waiting for him to go on. Rather to his surprise – because Sherlock had seemed very determined to keep his face hidden – Sherlock suddenly shifted against him and then lifted his head, letting go of John’s belt so that he could prop himself up on one elbow and look John in the eye.

“It wasn’t as though it was so bad,” he said, and his tone seemed to be pleading with John to understand. “Just getting a couple of smacks and some corner time. Not when it meant that you’d hold me afterwards.”

He blinked and lowered his gaze, then seemed to steel himself and looked up again, peering mournfully at John from under his eyelashes. His eyes were still pink-tinged and swollen, the clear evidence of his recent tears only making him look even more woebegone.

John still didn’t say anything, but he moved his hand – dislodged from its cuddle time position when Sherlock had moved – down to cover the one that Sherlock still had fisted in his shirt. He squeezed it gently, supportively, and nodded for Sherlock to keep talking.

Sherlock let out a soft breath, and the hand John had covered with his own abruptly released its fold of shirt and flipped over, clasping around John’s hand instead. Sherlock squeezed, hard, and John squeezed back.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, since Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something more from him. “Tell me.”

Sherlock sighed again, and his grip on John’s hand loosened slightly, although he continued to hold on. His shoulders twitched up and then down in a quick, rueful shrug.

“And so I thought I had a way to get what I wanted,” he said quietly, and then gave a wry little twist of his lips. “I didn’t want real punishments, of course, not – actual spankings, but I thought if I could just push you enough to get a smack or two –” He shrugged again, looking sheepish. “You always hug me after every punishment, no matter how minor. You’re rigid about that, it’s a rule. I thought if I could push just far enough but not too far, I could get the cuddles with a minimum of punishment.”

Which was just classic Sherlock, really, John thought. Always calculating. He’d basically done a cost-benefit analysis of the whole thing and come to the conclusion that he could make the benefits outweigh the costs. All it had taken was a bit of judicious manipulation.

“And it was working,” he prompted gently, because really it had been, at least in terms of Sherlock getting his cuddles.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, then added ruefully, “Minor miscalculations aside.”

He made a face and dropped his eyes again, fixing his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of John’s chest. “But I still felt ridiculous for doing it. For wanting to do it. And I started to realise almost at once that I’d trapped myself. If I wanted to keep getting cuddle time then I’d have to keep doing it. And the wanting it wasn’t going away. Even a _case_ didn’t make it go away, not entirely.” The frustrated emphasis made it quite clear just how bewildered Sherlock had been by that.

“I got anxious,” Sherlock said. “And I couldn’t sleep and I just wanted it even more.” The words were coming faster now, as if he just wanted to get them out. “And I felt even more stupid for wanting it and for not being able to control it, and I was frustrated with myself and you were getting frustrated too, I could tell. It was written all over you; you were wondering what was going on, why I was being so difficult. And I started to wonder how long it would be before you’d had enough, or you worked out that I was manipulating you, or both. And then I …”

He stopped, breathed in sharply and then blew it out, as if he was trying to steady himself.

“I didn’t know what would happen after that,” he said flatly, and then belied the toneless delivery with another unhappy chuckle. “And that just made me want a hug even more.”

_I didn’t know what would happen after that_. Translated, John was pretty sure that actually meant _I didn’t know what you would do_. And despite Sherlock’s attempt to appear dispassionate about it now, he’d obviously been worried.

And given what John had already learned about Sherlock’s insecurities, it wasn’t too hard to make an educated guess on just what he’d been worried about.

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand again, feeling the long fingers clasp tightly around his own. “Did you think I was going to give up?” he asked gently. “Put you in the too hard basket and just pack it all in?”

At that, Sherlock made a scornful sound and looked up again, only to pin John with an expression of exaggerated (and exasperated) patience.

“John,” he said in a tone that clearly implied he was stating the extremely obvious, “I _live_ in the too hard basket. I _am_ too hard.”

As sarcastic as it was, the delivery hadn’t been nearly enough to hide the undertone of hurt lacing the words. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been audible to everyone, but it most definitely was to John, and he felt his jaw clench tight as fresh sympathy bloomed hotly in his chest.

“Not for me,” he countered at once, very firmly. Sherlock hadn’t looked away, and John determinedly held his gaze, willing Sherlock to see his sincerity.

“Not for me,” he repeated. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’m not, and I wouldn’t have, no matter how difficult you were. And I won’t, no matter how difficult you _are_.” He paused to let that sink in, and then added pointedly, “We’ve got an agreement, remember? That’s important to me, too.”

John was rather expecting to be roundly deduced after that, and he waited expectantly to be the subject of Sherlock’s laser-intense gaze as he examined every inch of John that he could see, searching for any possible sign that John might not be entirely in earnest. It had happened before, and John didn’t take it personally. This was all still very new to both of them, and while he knew that Sherlock did trust him, he also knew Sherlock still had moments of doubt. And when he did, he would fall back – quite understandably – on using his skills at deduction to reassure himself.

And that was fine. John understood that. He didn’t trust easily either, so he was hardly in any position to criticise Sherlock for having doubts now and then. It would come in time, and until then, let Sherlock scan him all he liked if it made him feel better. John had meant every bloody last word he’d said, so let Sherlock see that.

This time, however, John had it wrong: the scrutiny he was anticipating never came. Instead, the mention of their agreement netted him an almost sheepish blink – and then, with no more than a cursory glance over John’s face, Sherlock quickly lowered his eyes again, dropping his gaze back down to fix somewhere on John’s chest.

He was still for a moment, and John heard him swallow hard. And then he sighed in a quick, hushed exhale of breath, and some of the rigid tension seemed to drain out of him, his head drooping lower as the tight line of his shoulders relaxed.

“Yes,” he said very quietly, and the tension had left his voice too, the derisive tone replaced instead by soft relief.

_Trust_ , John thought at once, and with that thought came a warm, sappy melting sensation somewhere deep inside his chest. That was what Sherlock’s ‘yes’ meant; Sherlock didn’t have to elaborate on it for John to know that. It meant _I trust you_.

He reached out with his other hand – the one not holding Sherlock’s – and very gently took hold of Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face back up so that John could meet his eyes. Sherlock meekly allowed it, gazing back at him silently and solemnly.

“Do you trust me?” John asked – knowing (or at least reasonably confident of) the answer, but wanting to hear it anyway.

“Yes.”

No hesitation, no qualification, just a simple yes. The warm, melting sensation became warmer still, and John had to pause to take a deep breath before he could speak again.

“Good,” he told Sherlock firmly – or at least as firmly as he could when his chest seemed to be melting from the inside. “Then trust me: I wouldn’t have given up. If you’re difficult, then you’re difficult. It doesn’t change anything. It just means you’ll be spending more time in the corner with a sore bum.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned adorably pink at those words, and John couldn’t help smiling at him fondly. Hoping it wasn’t too soon to lighten the tone, he added with just a hint of wry humour, “But I’d like it much better if I could cuddle you _without_ needing to smack you first.”

Sherlock’s blush remained in place, but his lips quirked up just the tiniest bit. “I would too,” he said, casting his eyes down almost shyly.

John gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “Good,” he repeated, sobering. “We’re agreed on that, then. And that’s what we’re going to do from now on, right? If you want a cuddle you can have one, whenever you like.

“And it’s not stupid, either,” he added, remembering Sherlock’s unhappy – and rather harshly self-deprecating – confession. “Not at all. There’s nothing stupid about wanting affection. I’m never going to think you’re stupid for wanting a cuddle, and you shouldn’t either.” He tapped Sherlock’s chin with a finger, waiting until Sherlock’s gaze flicked back up to meet his. “Okay?”

Sherlock bit his lip, but after a moment he gave a very small nod. “Okay.”

John knew better than to think it would actually be that easy, of course. Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to just turn off his feelings, even if he himself thought that he should be able to. It was going to take time before he felt comfortable with wanting affection – and considering how long Sherlock had gone without it, it might well take a _lot_ of time.

But that was fine. No matter how long it took, it was fine. Just like overcoming Sherlock’s doubts about John’s resolve, it would come in time. But it did mean that it was all the more important that John keep reassuring him that there really, truly was nothing wrong with him wanting a hug. And that when he did want one, he could have one, with no strings attached.

And that was fine too. John could do that. He’d say those things as often as Sherlock needed to hear them.

“Okay,” he echoed. “That’s good. You _can_ have a cuddle whenever you want one. And even if the code thing doesn’t work, we’ll find a way for you to let me know.” His voice softened as he added more gently, “You don’t need to worry about having to do anything like that again, Sherlock. Not ever. I know it was an awful week, but it’s over now and we’ve got it sorted.”

_Well, mostly_ , he amended to himself, and then amended it out loud as well, not wanting Sherlock to think he was glossing over things. “We’ll get it sorted,” he said, and that one _was_ accurate, because they _would_. “We’ll do better from now on, yeah?”

Sherlock was silent again for a moment, and John saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. His eyes were suddenly very bright, the telltale sheen turning the grey of his irises to quicksilver.

“Yes,” he said huskily, once he’d composed himself enough to speak. The single word was barely more than a murmur this time – but despite the low tone, John could still hear the trace of a quiver in it.

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand again, felt Sherlock squeeze his in return, and found himself resoundingly unsurprised when his own voice came out a bit unsteady, too. “And I’m not going anywhere,” he told Sherlock, his tone caught somewhere between firm and fervent. “I promise.”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated, dutiful. A beat, and then he frowned, faintly, and corrected himself. “No. You’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” John confirmed, and smiled at him crookedly. “Trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

“Good.” Relieved, John held Sherlock’s gaze for a long moment more, and then dipped his chin down pointedly towards his shoulder. “In that case … ready for another cuddle?”

Although Sherlock’s eyes were still suspiciously bright, his mouth turned up just slightly at the corners.

“Yes,” he said solemnly, and this time John got the impression that he was consciously mocking his own monosyllabic answers. He obviously meant it, though, because without another word he took his weight off his elbow and settled himself back against John’s shoulder. He didn’t quite bury his face, but tucked it firmly down against John’s side, cuddling into the warmth of his body with a soft sigh.

John let go of his hand so that he could put his arms around him again, and the hand that he’d released immediately flipped back over, Sherlock’s fingers quickly reclaiming the abandoned fold of John’s shirt. The gesture had the same effect on John as it always did, and since he didn’t have Sherlock’s hand to squeeze anymore, he settled for squeezing the rest of Sherlock instead.

“That’s good,” he murmured, his arms locking tight around Sherlock’s wiry frame. “That’s my good Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a contented little sound and snuggled into the embrace, and John gave him a final, fierce squeeze before he loosened his hold. His hands slid automatically back into their familiar cuddle time positions, and he began to rub Sherlock’s back comfortingly, earning himself another satisfied sigh.

“Shhhh,” John soothed – even though Sherlock didn’t sound particularly like he needed soothing, now. “It’s all right now. It’s all going to be fine.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed quietly, yet again, and then rather to John’s surprise he let out a low, watery chuckle. “I need another word.”

His dry tone made John chuckle in turn. “Yes works fine,” he said fondly, smoothing an affectionate hand over Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock hummed in pleasure at the touch, so John kept doing it, carding his fingers gently through the dark curls and smiling at Sherlock’s gratified reactions.

“It’s all going to be fine,” he repeated. “Time to just relax now and have a cuddle.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, which John supposed made a slight change from ‘yes’. But he was already starting to sound a bit drowsy, which John thought wasn’t at all surprising, considering. _He_ was feeling wiped out after that conversation, not to mention everything else that had happened today – and for that matter, everything else that had happened this _week_ – and so Sherlock must be completely exhausted by now. John didn’t care how good Sherlock was at ignoring his body’s need for rest, that kind of stress would make anyone tired.

But it was over now, John thought gratefully. They’d got it sorted. Mostly sorted. They would _get_ it sorted. And now Sherlock could have his cuddle time nap, finally. Or his cuddle time sleep-until-tomorrow, if he was tired enough for that. After the week he’d had, John thought he could certainly use it.

Sherlock seemed to think so too, if his wet noodle impression was any indication: he had relaxed completely against John, almost limp, his breathing already beginning to slow and deepen. John suspected he would probably be out cold in minutes, and so with that in mind he kept up the back rubbing – he’d stop that once he was sure Sherlock was asleep – but left off saying anything else, not wanting to keep Sherlock awake.

Besides, he was more than ready for a nap himself after all that. He knew he’d need to get up for food at some point – food and a cup of tea, oh God, _yes_ – and unless Sherlock really was out cold he’d try to get him to eat something, too. But he was much too comfortable to even consider moving right now. And anyway, it was cuddle time, and God only knew Sherlock could use more cuddling. It was, after all, the lack of cuddling that had set this whole disaster of a week in motion in the first place.

So: cuddle time now, food and tea later. Satisfied with his plan, John closed his eyes and settled himself in for a nap.

However, he quickly discovered that even with his eyes closed, and an armful of warm, relaxed Sherlock to act as a snuggly soporific, apparently his brain wasn’t nearly ready to shut down just yet.

He supposed it made sense, really. This was the first chance he’d had to just be still and _think_ since Sherlock’s reluctant confession had started all of this, so he’d had almost no time to actually process the influx of new information. He’d been too busy trying to fix the problem, and then dealing with Sherlock’s punishment, and then listening to Sherlock confess all over again, and none of that had exactly been conducive to any form of quiet personal reflection.

But now that he did have time to reflect, he found that his thoughts very quickly began to spiral back over the week that had just passed, as he recalled incident after incident with an all new perspective. He found himself thinking about his own confusion and how ridiculous it seemed now (because seriously, _how_ had he not seen it? He must be the most oblivious bloody person in the world) and he thought about how unnecessary it had all been, because he _should_ have seen it, because now that he knew what had been going on it was just blindingly bloody obvious. And he thought, too, about what Sherlock had told him, what Sherlock had confessed to him, about what had been going on in _his_ head while the days had been merrily unfolding into chaos.

And bloody hell, there was just so much to think about, there. Sherlock had been remarkably forthcoming, especially for Sherlock. Truthfully, John was still quietly amazed by the sheer, unflinching honesty of it. And he admired it, Christ, yes, he admired it, he could only imagine just how much courage it had taken for Sherlock to say all that.

Right now, though, his focus was centred more on _what_ Sherlock had said – and so he thought about _I wanted it so much_ and _it makes everything better_ and _I can sleep afterwards_ , and he thought about _I couldn’t delete it_ and _if it worked once_ and _minor miscalculations aside_ , and he thought about how afraid Sherlock must have been, even if he hadn’t actually said that word aloud, and how confused he’d admitted to being, and how it damn near broke his heart to think about Sherlock being driven to that, especially when John had (however inadvertently) had a hand in it.

And yet, at the same time, there was a fierce warmth there too, a fierce possessive warmth because Sherlock had wanted affection from _him_ , Sherlock needed _him_ (and it wasn’t a bad thing to like to be needed, was it?) And most important of all, Sherlock _trusted_ him, and John was going to live up to that, if he did nothing else ever he was going to live up to that. He was going to look after Sherlock to the absolute best of his ability, and he was going to make sure that his very own lunatic genius was safe, and cared for, and very definitely bloody _cuddled_.

But even with his firm resolve on those all important points, his brain still didn’t seem ready to call it quits. Instead it just kept running like a hamster in a wheel, so that once he’d worked his way through all of that, his thoughts just began to spiral their way around the whole thing again. He thought, and he pondered, and he remembered, and he silently replayed and analysed and inferred, and he had just come back around to _minor miscalculations aside_ when Sherlock suddenly shifted restlessly against him, let out a heavy, exasperated sounding sigh, and demanded, “What?”

Startled, his train of thought broken, John blinked and echoed the word back at him blankly. “What?” With his brain still trying to catch up, he frowned and added in some confusion, “I thought you were asleep.”

He had, too. Sherlock had been quiet, still, and breathing like a sleeping person, and John had rather thought he’d been out for at least the past ten minutes.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock told him in a disgruntled tone. “It’s distracting.”

It was such a typically Sherlock thing to say that it instantly lightened John’s mood, and he couldn’t help chuckling. He was thinking too loudly. Well, of course he was.

“Sorry,” he said, amused but rubbing Sherlock’s back in apology. “I’m sorry. Just … thinking. You know.”

“No,” Sherlock said tiredly, stifling a yawn against John’s shoulder. “But I will if you tell me.”

At that, John felt his eyebrows lift in vague surprise. “You want me to tell you what I’m thinking?”

“I want you to stop thinking,” Sherlock corrected him. “You’ll stop sooner if you talk about it.”

That made John chuckle again – partly in amusement at the blunt practicality of it, and partly because he was just rather pleased to hear Sherlock sounding more like _Sherlock_ , being his usual tactless, acerbic self. He might not have been sleeping, but it seemed that just having a bit of a cuddle had restored him somewhat.

“I’ve been thinking a lot of things,” he said wryly. “I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to put it all into words.”

Sherlock huffed in aggravation. “Tell me one thing, then,” he insisted. “Then you won’t have to think about that one, at least.”

He sounded sorely put upon, but there was an extra edge to his voice, an undertone that struck John as being almost a bit … anxious. He suddenly wondered if perhaps it wasn’t just being kept awake that was bothering Sherlock, but if he was actually worried about _what_ John was thinking so loudly about. Could he be concerned that John might be second guessing himself, or even thinking twice about their new agreement? John wasn’t, of course he wasn’t – but knowing what he did now about Sherlock’s insecurities, he thought it might not be so surprising if Sherlock’s overtired brain might have gone in that direction. It had been a bloody stressful day for him, after all.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, it really wouldn’t be surprising at all if Sherlock was still feeling a bit insecure. After everything that had happened today, he’d probably be having bouts of it for quite some time to come.

Well, if that was the case, then John would just have to make sure that he kept reassuring him. And for right now, it probably was a good idea for him to oblige and tell Sherlock _something_ that had been rattling around in his head, if only so that Sherlock could be duly reassured that it wasn’t anything he needed to be concerned about.

Besides, John supposed it _was_ possible that saying some of it out loud might shut his brain up, at least for a while. And if his thinking really was keeping Sherlock awake – and it wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had complained about other people thinking near him, so it quite probably was – well, then that was another good reason to give it a try. After the day he’d had, Sherlock needed the sleep.

With that in mind, he patted Sherlock’s back comfortingly. “Yeah, all right, then,” he agreed, intentionally keeping his voice light. “It’s worth a try. Um … okay. Hang on, let me think.”

He ignored Sherlock’s impatient sigh and mentally groped around for something to start with. He’d been thinking so _many_ things, damn it; his thoughts had been spinning around and around like a bloody top. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been up to when Sherlock had interrupted him …

Wait, yes he could. He’d been mulling over the subject of Sherlock’s ‘minor miscalculations’ – which, let’s face it, had been a phrase that all but demanded further consideration, even if it was just sheer curiosity doing the demanding.

Okay, John thought. Fine. That would work well enough. He did actually have some questions he wanted to ask about that particular issue, although he certainly hadn’t thought to ask them now.

Now would do, though, he supposed. If he’d been going to ask them anyway, then the timing wasn’t really too important.

“Okay,” he said again, more purposefully. “Right, then. I was thinking about the chemical burns.” He felt Sherlock stiffen very slightly beside him, and automatically gentled his voice in response. “That was one of your ‘minor miscalculations’, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock sighed, but relaxed, and John thought he sounded a bit relieved. “Yes,” he said, and then elaborated without John having to ask. “I thought you’d punish me for not wearing gloves.”

And Sherlock had even said as much at the time, John remembered. He’d actually told the truth about what he’d been doing, and John had just blithely misinterpreted what it actually meant. He’d thought Sherlock had decided to leave the gloves off because he wanted to, and to then just accept the punishment as a necessary evil for doing what he’d wanted to do. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Sherlock had in fact been actively courting it.

But of course, he thought ruefully, that was probably exactly what Sherlock had intended him to think.

“So you left them off deliberately,” he prompted, trying to make sure he sounded encouraging rather than disapproving. No, he didn’t approve of Sherlock doing experiments without the proper safety equipment, but he’d already made his point about that, and scolding Sherlock again for it wasn’t the goal here.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and then amended, not quite sheepishly, “Well. I didn’t want to wear them for that part anyway. They’d have got in the way.”

John tried – and failed – not to roll his eyes. “They’re supposed to get in the way,” he pointed out drily. “That’s how they keep the toxic stuff off your skin.”

Sherlock’s answer to that was a disdainful snort, and John chuckled despite the cheek of it. If Sherlock had been feeling insecure, he seemed to be feeling less so now.

“But it didn’t occur to you that I’d be upset about the actual experiment, did it?” he asked, not really needing an answer to that one. He’d known Sherlock had miscalculated about that even at the time and without having all the facts; Sherlock’s reaction had made that more than clear.

“No.” Sherlock sounded faintly disgusted now, the memory of his mistake apparently still something of a sore point. “It should have.” He sighed, and John could feel his scowl, even though he couldn’t see it. “There’s always something.”

“Well. You know now,” John said, patting his back again in mingled consolation and mild warning. “No more experiments that involve harming yourself.” Straight-faced, he added, “Or else I’ll start making you write out materials and methods before I let you do any.”

Sherlock snorted again, sounding unimpressed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Probably not, no,” John agreed mildly, because he hadn’t actually been in earnest. “But don’t push it.” Because he bloody well would do it if it came right down to it.

Sherlock huffed in seeming indignation, but promptly made a lie of it by nuzzling his face against John’s shoulder. “All right.”

“Good,” John said, and then followed that up with a fond, “My good Sherlock.” He smiled to himself when Sherlock hummed in immediate pleasure and tried to snuggle closer to him.

There was silence for a few moments after that, and John fully intended to just leave it there. With any luck, now that he’d said some of what he’d been thinking out loud, he’d be able to stop thinking quite so loudly (as Sherlock would have put it). And Sherlock, meanwhile, would be both reassured about the direction of John’s thoughts and able to sleep undisturbed by any loud thinking (and with any luck, so would John).

But despite his intentions, he very quickly became aware that there was something else he wanted to talk about before Sherlock went to sleep – something very pertinent, in fact, to Sherlock going to sleep. The idea seemed to pop into his head very abruptly, but as soon as it did John realised that he’d actually been thinking about it ever since Sherlock had started explaining – ever since he’d started saying things like _I wanted to crawl into your arms and just sleep like that_ , and _it feels good and I can sleep and afterwards everything’s better_. Because that was a singular point that had come up again and again during Sherlock’s revelations, in a variety of different ways but with the same very simple underlying message: being cuddled helped Sherlock _sleep_.

And the stupid thing was, John thought, it wasn’t as though that was even a revelation at all. He’d already known bloody well that being cuddled helped Sherlock sleep; he’d seen it happen time and time again. It just hadn’t occurred to him to … well, to offer what he was about to offer.

Although that probably wasn’t so surprising, given _what_ he was about to offer. And technically it _was_ already covered under the cuddles-on-tap agreement, really. But he wanted to make sure he offered it anyway, because even with Sherlock’s frequent lack of concern for personal space, John suspected that he might not take liberties like the one John was thinking of – not for cuddles, at least – unless he’d been specifically invited to.

And while they could certainly have discussed it later, now that John had thought of it, he found that he wanted very badly to do it now. In fact, now that he’d thought of it, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to _sleep_ unless he did it now.

“Sherlock,” he said, before he could think about it any further and perhaps start second guessing himself – hoping now, that Sherlock hadn’t already fallen asleep.

Sherlock shifted drowsily against him. “Hmmm?”

Sleepy, but not asleep, not yet. Good. John hesitated momentarily – and for just a moment he actually did second guess himself – but then he decided that no, it _was_ a good idea, and he might as well just forge ahead with it.

“What you said,” he began, and then clarified, “About cuddles helping you sleep.”

He felt Sherlock go still again beside him, sensed him coming alert in a hurry, and he hastily continued, not wanting there to be any misunderstandings. “I just wanted to say, if it’s easier for you to fall asleep like this … we can do that. We could even make a routine of it, if you want to, as best we can anyway. I know we already said whenever you want, so it comes under that anyway – but if you wanted a cuddle at bedtime, just to help you fall asleep – well, we can do that,” he repeated.

Sherlock had listened to that in silence, and after John had finished he remained silent for several long seconds more. Finally, slowly, he echoed, “A routine.” He paused again, then asked cautiously, “You mean do it every night?”

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s exactly what I mean. Every night that we can, at least. Every night that we’re both here and you don’t have a case on.”

He supposed it would be taking them back closer to the ‘mandatory daily cuddles’ territory, which was exactly what the code phrase had been intended to avoid. But these wouldn’t actually _be_ mandatory; if Sherlock didn’t feel like a cuddle on some particular night, all he would have to do was say so. And it wouldn’t make the code phrase idea redundant, either. Sherlock would still have his code to use at other, non-bedtime times. Doing both, John thought, just meant they’d be covered on both fronts.

“Provided you want to, of course,” he added, wanting to make sure that Sherlock was very clear on the non-mandatory part. “And even if we did set up a routine, if you didn’t feel like it on some nights, you could just say so. Or we could have another code for that,” he added wryly. “A ‘no I don’t want a cuddle’ code.”

Sherlock ignored the mild attempt at levity. “But we don’t go to bed at the same time,” he pointed out carefully, in the same guarded tone.

“No,” John agreed, because it was quite true. Sherlock might be up half the night sometimes, if he was working on something that he couldn’t (or didn’t want to) leave, or if he just felt like staying up until all hours. So even when they didn’t have a case on, John frequently went to bed earlier than he did.

He’d already thought of that, though. “No, so we’d do it to your bedtime,” he went on, because while he did want Sherlock to start getting more sleep, he certainly wasn’t going to go so far as to insist that Sherlock slept to the same hours that he did. That wouldn’t be reasonable or fair.

“Or whenever you want to go to sleep, really,” he added, just to be clear. “We can do it for naps, too, if you need a power nap during a case or something. I suppose that was covered anyway, though, since you’ve got your code and you can tell me … but you _should_ sleep more regularly,” he said firmly, getting himself back on track. It was entirely true, after all, and it was something Sherlock knew very well that John was concerned about.

But Sherlock ignored that, too, clearly still focused more on the logistics of the whole idea. “But … you usually go to bed _earlier_ than I do,” he said, and his tone suggested that he was wondering if John had, somehow, managed to miss this very pertinent fact, and thus didn’t understand the obvious problem it presented.

John hadn’t, of course. But he supposed he had been hedging around it a bit, trying to see if Sherlock was amenable to the general idea before he got into specifics. Because the answer to that particular problem was, really, the whole crux of what he was offering here. And as far as he could see, if Sherlock did actually want bedtime cuddles – or cuddles for any reason after John had gone to bed, for that matter – it was simply the most logical solution.

And he might as well put it on the table, he thought, mentally throwing caution to the wind. With deliberate calm, as if he was offering a cup of tea, he said, “If I’ve already gone to bed, then you can come upstairs and climb in with me.” And then, because he was determined to keep emphasising it: “If you want to.”

It _was_ the most logical solution. And the most obvious one, or at least it was to John. He’d thought of it almost as soon as the problem itself had occurred to him. And, interestingly enough, he found that the idea of it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

All right, he supposed it _could_ be considered … going a step further, maybe, or something along those lines. But not by much, not really, not considering how far they’d already stepped with this whole arrangement. And honestly, they already had what was probably the most unorthodox flat share in the world. What was one more unorthodox thing? If it didn’t bother either of them, and it gave Sherlock something he needed, then why the hell not?

Besides, the simple fact was that after everything he’d heard today, the idea of Sherlock being up in the middle of the night, wanting a cuddle to help him sleep but thinking he had no way to get it, just wasn’t one that John was willing to entertain.

Although of course, it also depended on Sherlock being willing. He still hadn’t spoken, and so John waited, trying to be patient as the silence stretched out – and out – and out. He dearly wished he could see Sherlock’s face, but a hopeful glance down revealed little more than the top of his head, which didn’t give John a lot of clues as to his expression.

But finally – just as John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock actually intended to reply at all – the answer came, in the form of Sherlock offering a very small, and rather bewildered sounding, “Oh.”

And then, very tentatively: “Really?”

John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Not an unwelcome offer, then. Sherlock obviously hadn’t been expecting it, if his tone was any indication, but he certainly didn’t sound unhappy about the idea – at least not that John could tell, and he was pretty sure he _would_ be able to tell.

“Yes,” he replied at once, emphatic and glad to confirm it. “Really.”

“It wouldn’t …” Sherlock began, and then hesitated. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” John told him firmly. He remembered all too well the importance Sherlock had placed on that particular phrase. As further evidence, he pointed out, “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before. We’re sharing a bed right now.”

“Yes, but …” Sherlock’s voice trailed off again, and he seemed to think better of what he’d been about to say. “You’re sure?” he asked instead.

John didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”

“And …” Sherlock’s voice was tentative again. “If you’re already asleep when I come up?”

_When_ , John thought, and smiled to himself. Sherlock had said ‘when I come up’. When, not if.

And as for his question, well, that was easily answered. “Doctor,” John reminded Sherlock wryly. “Soldier. Light sleeper. I’ll be able to wake up enough to give you a cuddle. Just don’t shout in my ear or anything like that, or I might clock you before I know it’s you.” His tone was light, although the warning itself was genuine; he was a diagnosed PTSD sufferer, after all.

Which Sherlock knew quite well, so John wasn’t overly surprised when he didn’t ask for any further explanation of that. Instead, his hand tightened briefly around the fold of John’s shirt he was holding, and then he said very quietly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” John echoed, wanting to make sure. “Okay, we’ll try cuddles at bedtime?”

“I … yes.” Sherlock seemed to be struggling for a neutral tone, and only partially succeeding. “If you’re sure. That …” He hesitated, and his voice dropped even lower. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” John said warmly, relieved, and he gave Sherlock an affectionate squeeze, feeling suddenly and inexplicably buoyed up. “Bedtime cuddles it is, then. We’re agreed.”

It was more of a statement than a question, although there was room there for Sherlock to disagree if he happened to want to. It seemed that he didn’t, though, since his only response was to make a pleased little sound as John hugged him and to press himself into the tighter embrace, worming closer and nuzzling his face against John’s shoulder.

Once John had loosened his hold back into a somewhat less emphatic cuddle, however, Sherlock did – without lifting his head – add a thoughtful, if rather muffled codicil to their new agreement.

“But exceptions for cases,” he said seriously, as if that aspect might have been overlooked and it was very important that he remind John of it. “Because I might not go to bed.”

John had not, of course, overlooked that aspect – and had in fact even made the point of specifying exceptions for cases, because weren’t there _always_ exceptions for cases? – but he didn’t bother to remind Sherlock of that. Cases were serious business, after all, and he could understand Sherlock wanting to double check.

“Yes, of course exceptions for cases,” he said soothingly. “But my call on how long you go without sleep, right?” The warning in his tone was mild, but still clearly present.

Sherlock didn’t even attempt to argue. “Yes,” he said simply. “We agreed.”

“So we did,” John said comfortably, satisfied with the answer – and with the whole situation, really. Cuddles at bedtime, then. Right. That was that settled.

“Right,” he echoed himself out loud, with a decisive nod. “That’s settled, then.” And again, he found himself completely and cheerfully unperturbed by the prospect. What exactly that meant, he wasn’t sure, but he did know that the thought of Sherlock coming to him for affection – even if it was the middle of the bloody night – filled him with absurdly pleasant warmth.

He chuckled as Sherlock suddenly stifled a yawn against his shoulder. “And on that note,” he said drily, “You’re tired. Have a nap.”

Sherlock huffed, a bit indignantly. “I’ve been trying to,” he told John bluntly. “You keep talking to me.”

John grinned. That was a fair cop, he supposed. Still, he wasn’t at all sorry that they’d had the conversation. Or any of the conversations, for that matter. This had been a hell of a day, but he thought they were doing pretty well with the outcome of it, all things considered.

“Yeah, all right,” he said. “Guilty. I’ll shut up, then, and you go to sleep. Wait, hang on –” He caught himself abruptly, glancing down at what he could see of Sherlock’s half naked form and remembering what he’d planned – and failed – to do earlier. “We ought to get you into bed properly, or you’ll get cold.”

Sherlock made an irritated noise, but before John could press the issue, he said very shortly, “Blanket.” And with only the barest shift away from his position on John’s shoulder, he wormed his bottom arm out from underneath him and began groping around under the bed, quickly coming up with the aforementioned item – a very soft and expensive looking version in pale grey.

John blinked as Sherlock tossed the blanket up onto the bed, somehow still managing to stay firmly attached to John’s side as he did it. “Contingency planning?” he asked, amused.

“Put it there yesterday,” Sherlock told him briefly, around another half smothered yawn. “Should have done it ages ago.”

Sherlock practicality in action, John thought wryly. It had been a good idea, though. Certainly much easier than trying to convince a sleepy, well cuddled Sherlock to move before he was good and ready.

He sat up just enough so that he could get Sherlock covered with the blanket, ignoring the plaintive whine of protest from the lunatic genius in question. Once he was satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t going to get chilled, he settled himself back down onto the pillows, and Sherlock immediately snuggled in against him. John gladly cuddled him close, leaning down to press a kiss into Sherlock’s messy curls.

“Go to sleep,” he said fondly. “You need it.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied in drowsy affirmation, and nuzzled John’s shoulder again. Apparently he was quite ready to take John up on his suggestion, because he sounded more than half asleep already.

Good, John thought, as he relaxed back onto the pillows. Sherlock did need it. And bloody hell, so did he. It had been … Christ, looking back now, it had been one _hell_ of an eventful day.

John knew he was probably going to need more time to process it all. He was going to need to think about everything that had happened, and about everything that would be happening from now on, and about how it was going to change things and how it wasn’t, and so on, and so forth, and now let’s discuss and in conclusion. And he would think about it. He would think long and hard and _loudly_ about all of it, and he would get it straight in his head, and he’d go from there.

But – for right now – it could wait. All of it could wait. None of it was actually a problem; in fact most of it had to do with solving problems. They’d solved problems, and they’d dealt with Sherlock’s crane-climbing, and they’d agreed on bedtime cuddles and the basic logistics thereof, and for right now, that would just about bloody do. Later, John would think, and later he would also get up and make tea, and find them some food, and have a shower and do anything else he could think of that had been neglected in all the chaos. But later. Later.

Right now, he was going to follow Sherlock’s lead and take a very well-earned nap.

 


End file.
